October 8th, 2004


cough, cough, cough

Really, that sums up the preceeding twenty-four hours.

Anyway, as of the last time I looked, ten or fifteen minutes ago, the nude photo vote stood at 114 "yes" and 13 "no." Who am I to argue with the more lascivious wants and desires of my readers? But I'm placing the photo behind a cut, so those 13 who voted "no" shall not have to look (right now, you Blogger people are probably wondering what the frell I'm going on about). And if you do decide to look, you do so at your own risk. I'm certain that this one photo will forever change the way you look at me. So, be sure.

You're sure?

Okay, then.

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Glad to have that out of the way.

I was so wasted on Benadryl yesterday that I accomplished next to nothing. I wrote a few e-mails, then began proofing the three pages I'd written on Wednesday. I managed to get that done, did a little revision, and then realized I was falling asleep. I somehow made it to the sofa before I lost consciousness. Spooky came home about five to find me zonked out, asleep in a sunbeam with my goggles on. The cough seems better today, so maybe I'll make it to page four.

There were all sorts of things I was going to write about in the blog yesterday, all of which slipped my mind. Like Spooky being stalked through the grocery store by an old man with a plumbing fetish. I may switch to Claritin today, in the hope that it will have less of a zombiefying affect.

Late yesterday afternoon, we read part of Phil Hines' Prime Chaos, then Spooky made quesadillas for dinner. We watched an ep of Farscape ("Mental as Anything") and then John Lee Hancock's The Alamo. It was a so-so film at best, with an overbearing score that seemed intent on stressing the film's weaknesses and drowning the whole affair in overwrought sentimentality. I enjoyed it well enough, but at the end was left feeling as though I'd seen a made-for-TV movie. Billy Bob's kind of fun as Davy Crockett, but that's the best of it. The 1960 version was a better film, even if it wasn't as close to "the truth" of things. Screw the truth. "When the legend becomes fact, print the legend." Or film the legend, as the case may be.

Whoops. Time to feed the pussy...um, cat.
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