I didn't go so far as to put my head through a wall yesterday, but the frustration finally drove me away from the keyboard about 4 p.m. or so. The frustration and those creepy Bohemian Grove websites. I flailed uselessly about the bedroom for a bit before Spooky told me to get out of the house, and I told her I couldn't, that all that blue sky would eat me alive and then spit my bones out somewhere over Mississippi or Arkansas. I know about blue skies. I know all about blue skies and owl-worshiping fascists and bones falling out of clear blue skies. Then she told me that it had gotten cloudy, and I risked a quick glance, thinking she probably just wanted me dead so that she wouldn't have to hear it anymore. But turns out she was telling the truth, so I fucked off to the Vortex for a couple of black and tans. Some old guy tried to panhandle me for "gas money." I swear, if they would only tell me the truth, that they need money for booze or crack or crystal meth or hookers, I'd probably cough up a couple of bits, but gas money? This guy was already so drunk, even if he'd been telling the truth, I figured the last thing he needed was to be out there driving around. The sober drivers in Atlanta are bad enough, thank you very goddamn much. So, yeah, I sat and drank and wished I'd become a gynecologist or a lady of independent means or just about anything at all except a writer. Just before dark, as I was leaving the bar, I spotted the guy who'd panhandled me asleep beneath a tree, so I figured someone had finally given him "gas money." Good thing it was cloudy, or the sky would have eaten him for sure.
Last night was officially declared fluff television night. So we rented Mr. and Mrs. Smith, and I know that I'm a sucker for pretty people kicking the ever-loving shit out of one other, but I liked it. It's not half as clever a film as it wants to be, but it's still fun and cute in a silly, over-the-top, pretending-to-be-amoral kind of way. Too bad it wasn't rated R; it would have been better. Afterwards, we watched the premiere of Project Runway 2. Already, I'm in love with Santino Rice. Spooky says I have a thing for ugly men, and who am I to argue. Wilem Dafoe and Ron Perlman do it for me every time. It was good to see the insipid Atlanta (well, actually Alabama) chick get the boot right off. Just because you're from Alabama doesn't mean you have to talk like a frelling Hee Haw extra.
Have I mentioned that Frog Toes and Tentacles is a beautiful book? Because it is. I can't decide which state I adore the most, the trade or the limited. The trade looks deceptively innocent, like something a Victorian woman might keep hidden discretely beneath a parlour cushion. The limited (black leather with red foil embossing; sold out) is just flat out sexy. I love the small format (six and a third by four and three quarters). I've been wanting to do a book like this for ages. Vince's artwork came out wonderfully. If you haven't already bought a copy, well, like I said, it's a beautiful book. You should. Also, FT&T is remarkable in that it went from conception (February 5th) to a finished book I can hold in my hands (November 7th) in only a little more than nine months, which is far and away a new record for me. And this reminds me to remind you to subscribe to Sirenia Digest. There's still time to sign up before Issue #1 goes out this month.
I didn't get around to uploading the pirate Nar'eth pinup. I'll try to do it this evening.
By now, I think just about everybody in the world has seen Neil's entry re: Disney's replacement of Christopher Robin with a "tomboy girl" (as opposed to a "tomboy boy"?). But if you haven't, click here. It makes me wish Neil would lose his temper more often. Now, I guess it's time to put Tigger on Ritalin and get Rabbit a Prozac 'script. Yeah. Whatever. I'm wondering if Robert A. Iger is down with Molech...
Okay, time to hurt myself. Please have a look at the eBay auctions. 'Cause, you know, I need gas money and all that.