September 3rd, 2006


I wait for answers...

I think I may have finished the Bradbury intro yesterday. I've got to read over it again this afternoon to see if my opinion has changed. I have always found writing these sorts of things to be about the most difficult, nerve-wracking sort of writing that I'm ever asked to do. And, in this case, when I've been asked to write about an author of such stature and one who has had such an enormous impact on my own writing...what the frell do you say? I've tried to relax and say what first comes to mind, what seems most honest and direct. But there's this nagging voice, telling me I will only ever have one chance to do this, and this is me saying thank-you, and Bradbury's gonna read it, and in some ways it's one of the most important pieces that I'll ever write, and so it has to be right. So, the second-guessing and self-doubt takes over, and, well, there you go. Yesterday, I asked Neil to please read it for me when I think I'm done, and he said he would. That will, hopefully, put some of my worries to rest. Or confirm them. Either way, it's better than having no opinion but my own.

In the summer, Spooky and I usually walk in the evening. But this morning I needed to move, so we went out about ten o'clock. It was overcast, and there was still dew on the grass, not too hot, but definitely muggy. In the park, we talked with a homeless man about trees. There was a mini-bulldozer sort of thing parked on Moreland, and I threatened to hotwire it and take out some of the condos and townhouses that have sprung up hereabouts like great pastel fungi, housing for all these gentrification assholes who think they want to live in the city, but expect it to made over in the image of the suburbs, just for their convenience. I told Spooky that if I called it a publicity stunt, I could take the ensuing bail and legal expenses as tax deductions. She said not no way, not no how, and herded me back to the house. A damned unreasonable woman is Spooky.

But at least she can cook. After the writing was done yesterday, we headed to Whole Foods to get the week's groceries, and she made pasta with fresh basil and red peppers for dinner, accompanied by a very delicious organic Syrah, of which I drank too much. Too tipsy for anything but a nap and then a couple of Big Dumb Action Films, we ended up watching Die Harder With A Vengeance (1995) and Predator 2 (1990), back to back on FMC. The former holds up far better than the latter, perhaps because it was a better movie to start with. It's just fun, watching Willis and Jackson do what they do. And besides, you get a double-dose of sexy with Jeremy Irons and Sam Phillips. I was disappointed that Predator 2 is so horridly dated, weighed down by a wardrobe that looks fresh from a 1988 music video, even though the film is set in 1997. The creature effects are still pretty cool, but Bill Paxton will always annoy the hell out of me, and one should never follow Samuel Jackson with Danny Glover. It's like drinking Bass and then switching over to Sterling after an hour or so. Anyway, that was yesterday. Oh, and this (behind the cut), because some people have no better manners than to take somewhat out-of-focus photos of a slightly liquored-up nixar and her cat who are both trying to take a post-supper nap:

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I think Spooky's gonna work on the Barker's clothing today. If I have to write, she has to make dolls. It's only fair. And let's not forget that over at you can get Daughter of Hounds with Alabaster for a paltry $27.70. The platypus says it's a steal, and who am I to argue with a monotreme?