Paláver is not meaningless. It is not a jelly donut. It is not a dragon. So you could bet your best dollar that Paláver is not a dragon who eats jelly donuts. It is not Pi or pie. It is not a man in a suit with an apple for a head. It is not a woman with green scales. It is not spilled milk so your tears are unwarranted. It is not a philosophy and it is not a basketball, though when you think about it, it could be both, but only when you think about it. It is not made of plastic or plaster, and it was not built by Frank Gehry though if he offered, we would have let him. It is not a rooster or another dimension, and it is not a cereal box or a riddle written by your second cousin (the one whose Christmas photo you look at for way too long). It is not the chubby Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. It is not your Uncle Dave. It is not wanted in all fifty states, just five. And it is not, and I repeat, it is not a Jerry Bruckheimer production.
