This little box of light brings me the world.
And here it is, Number Fifty-One.
Yesterday, I wrote a measly 425 words on "Le Meneur des loups." These half-assed days have to stop.
Please have a look at the current eBay auctions. Thanks.
I was promised sun today. Mostly, we have clouds. But it's warm enough (currently 77˚F) and humid. And this has become one of those annoying entries of short paragraphs. It looks like a goddamn CNN article.
My thanks to the following folks who were kind enough to send gifts (and if your name isn't here, it might be because I haven't been to the p.o. box since Friday): Kate Savage, Steven Lubold, Brian Evanson, Setsuled, Margaux Shaffer, Cheryl Porter, Jada, Jörg, and the Mighty Gordon Duke. These are welcome distractions.
There's really nothing profound that can be said about a fifty-first birthday.
Last night, two films, both of which I'd seen before: first, Oliver Stone's Natural Born Killers (1994), which is the same gloriously hallucinogenic nightmare I remember, and the second, Neil Jordan's In Dreams (1999). I'd forgotten that In Dreams is such an awful mess, in just about every way a film can go wrong. It's a strange misstep in a brilliant career.