Saturday, August 13, 2005
Thinking the Impossible
A late (and far too sober) homecoming to a battery of emails and my phone messager blinking with enronian vigor. I am beseeched "in the bowels of Christ" to think it possible that I may be mistaken in posting my peddyphiliac follies: I know not what I'm taking on, is the overall big picture message ... these pols play hardball ... at least get my Green Card renewed before bandying silly-arse names around .... I am too sober not to take it seriously - PLUS - I am on the run from the Luthiers of America - PLUS - I am in the doghouse with "She-who-watches-Ashes & Diamonds without subtitles and knows how to pronounce Andrzej Wajda and thinks I LINK TOO MUCH". I phone K and ask her what to do. She tells me not to be such a baby but maybe put those postings into draft til the heat dies down. "I don't want to read in Steve Gardner that an Englishman wearing a cinder block has been found taking the waters off Point White." She asks me how Bagels 'n' Blues went and I say it went fine and I'll be posting the photos 'anon'. She says post them 'a-now' and then get some sleep. "Sleep? MacPeddy doth murder sleep" "Actually, it's *does* murder sleep". Want directions? Ask a tourist.
