It would seem that, with that second blogger entry yesterday, I inadvertently outed myself to a large number of readers. I say "inadvertently," because I'd reached that point, yet again, where I was pretty sure that Everyone Knew. Every time I think that, though, I end up outing myself once more. It's really kind of amusing, in a baffling sort of way. So, yes, the rumours are true. I really am an alien. And don't bother notifying the Air Force or the NSA or the "shop," because they already have extensive files on me. I regularly have coffee and scones with a couple of nice MiBs.

I'd forgotten that I have to go to Birmingham this week for a doctor's appointment, until Spooky reminded me last night (or was it this morning?). Ugh. Of course, it's my fault for not getting off my ass and finding a new doctor (that I can stand) in Atlanta. So, on Thursday, a day will be lost driving into the Great Western Wilderness and back again. I suppose I could get some reading done on the trip. But ugh, I say.

Spooky's taking her morning constitutional, with a detour to have the corrected galleys of "Mercury" photocopied so they can be returned to Subterranean Press today. And I have to call my editor at Penguin, just as soon as I'm done with this entry, to tell him that I decided there was no way I could arbitrarily choose which commas get fixed and which don't. I have just about decided not to include Adrian Woods (the dratted production editor responsible for this mess) in the acknowledgements, but only because I fear petty retaliations. This poor book. [pause: the phone rang and it was my editor, even as I was typing this paragraph, and now he's trying to find the cheapest way to get the ms. back to NYC fast, because production is demanding they have it back tomorrow...shoot me now) I hope there is a special level of the Bad Place reserved for those who cannot be bothered to do their best, because they're lazy or stubborn or it's "not in the budget." Hell, this whole book wasn't in my budget, but I wrote it. Anyway, moving on, because that's all I can do, there are other things to be done this day. I need to start making notes (in the new notebook) for Daughter of Hounds [insert here: another call from my editor], and then there's whatever else needs doing. I was reminded last night that I'd promised Bill Schafer a weird sf story for his new zine, Subterranean, and I'll have to write that in August, since July already has a story to be written, and June is utterly shot.

I love being a writer. I swear, I wouldn't trade this frelling job for all the tea in China. Or, since that's probably no longer politically correct to say, all the tea in China, how about, I wouldn't trade this job for a hundred million bucks, a weekend in Greece with Angelina Jolie, a trip to Antarctica, a brand new grey-blue PT Cruiser, one of everything in the Apple store, and a house on the Cape?

Last night, we watched If I Should Fall From Grace: The Shane McGowan Story (thanks to blu_muse for talking it up in her journal a while back). It was really wonderful, in a sort of heartbreaking-but-still-uplifting way. I fell so hard in love with The Pogues back in 1986, and If I Should Fall From Grace With God was one of those records I played until the grooves went smooth (yes, that was in the far-off Palaeolithic days of vinyl). I got to see The Pogues at Sloss Furnace in Birmingham, sometime in the summer of 1988. Shane had a lot more teeth back then. That was one of the two or three best shows I ever saw. Afterwards, we were dripping wet from beer and wine and who knows (or wants to know) what else. I swear, it rained booze through that whole show. Luka Bloom opened, and man that seems like a long, long time ago.

Oh, and we ate barbeque yesterday, after reading "Mercury."

I should go be useful. If I can remember how one does that...

The third Murder of Angels ARC (and possibly the last I shall sell) auction has begun. Also, I have copies of Low Red Moon and In the Garden of Poisonous Flowers up right now.