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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.

Want Shakespeare? Ask a bio-chemist.

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