Jimmy Herbert was one of those elder statesmen of jazz who assumed all students of the music were like Tristan McLaren—ultimately malapert toward the traditions of swing and bebop, with the reptilianness of their competitive attitude preventing them from being anything but hackneyed codicils to the jazz canon—without realizing that he was pretty unknown and boring himself.
Julian was more sagacious than a hipster, and thus more of a boulevardier; he knew not to freak out about how the aperture mechanism of his camera was always getting stuck, and he requested handwritten snail mail from his friends not because retro was hip but because he wanted them to put some personality into whatever it was they were trying to let him know.
The failure of Floridians with exotic pets to recognize their capacity for wanton ecological havoc in the event that they escaped, as had happened countless times before, resembled prosopagnosia; it was enough to make a percipient observer of the state of the state's wildlife wax splenetic, though people not as ambidextrous in naming nature would not be able to tell an escaped clawed frog from a pig frog, an escaped seedcracker finch from a vermilion flycatcher- until the native kinds were gone.
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