Some time ago, I declared that the three coolest men on Earth were David Bowie, Johnny Cash, and Roy Orbison. It's still true, even though two of them are dead. But this writing-to-Roy-Orbison thing is starting to freak me out, keeping my head lodged in some ever so slightly off-kilter Lynchian universe where it's simultaneously 1956 and 2035. I can't hear any song without imagining how it would sound if Julee Cruise were singing it. Too many people smile for too many reasons. Which is to say, "Alabaster" is coming along. Dancy Flammarion in 1998, walking along a south Georgia highway, stopping at a Texaco Station that's still firmly lodged in 1935.
If I live to be a hundred
I will never know from where
Came those lovely scarlet ribbons...
Yeah, it's like that.
Was there anything else to yesterday? Anything worth the mentioning? More time was spent of the finer points of the Nebari female reproductive system. Spooky and I passed a ridiculously dorky hour or so putting all the data on my D&D character sheet into my iBook. Tony Randall died. Transsexuals will be allowed to compete in the Olympics. I had some ungodly e-mail problems with .mac, resulting from my not knowing that I have to delete my deleted and sent mail (AOL auto deletes sent and deleted mail) and using 16 of my alloted 15MB. E-mails bounced left and right, up and down. Sophie stalked a careless squirrel. And that's about it.
The Murder of Angels ARC auction is going well, and has only four days and an hour remaining.
Now it's time for me to either write or find some other way to justify the day.