Where was I?
Jessica Lange singing Lana De Rey, that's where I was. Fucking wow. So far, Season Four of American Horror Story is managing not to go off the rails. Can Ryan Murphy keep that up? We'll see. Meanwhile, it's a marvelously perverse banquet for the eyes and ears.
Sirenia Digest #105 will include "The Rest of the Wrong Thing," which I cowrote in 2000 with Billy Martin (writing as Poppy Z. Brite). It's appeared in print nowhere since it's initial appearance in Wrong Things (2001). I spent part of yesterday reading it for the first time in thirteen years. I made some minor edits. Mostly, I got rid of the portmanteaus that once characterized my work, and of which I'm no longer especially fond (with all due respect to Mr. James Joyce, who was better at it by far). It's a much story than I recall, but I think what I most appreciate about it is that, like Silk (and, for that matter, Billy's Lost Souls), it's of a time and a place. No fucking cell phones. No Twitter or fucking Facebook. There's a pay phone. Stuff like that. For me, like Tales of Pain and Wonder before it, it's the end of the world before the Grand Holy Manic Social-Narcissist Cybergasm began. And that makes it rather wonderful.
Still no sun.
Please have a look at the current eBay auctions. Thank you. Because I have to pay the fluorescent-white leeches to take my blood away. It's not corporeal theft for free.
Enough for now. I need iron.