Last night, Spooky and I drank a bottle of homemade absinthe which was a gift from a friend. And while it did nicely augment my first experience with Crimson Skies, it also left us both with very notable hangovers. I am now endeavoring to ignore said hangover and get on with today.

My thanks to wishlish for sending me Baker Street: Honour Among Punks and Baker Street: A Tragedy in Five Acts (by Guy Davis and Gary Reed, of course). It's helping me think of comics again, which will hopefully help me get this essay written for the Fiddler's Green souvenir book, if the Fiddler's Green people ever get around to telling me how long the essay should be. Anyway, thanks.

The last couple of nights I've watched a good deal of the Olympics, the one significant exception in my general disinterest in and hostility towards sporting events. With the Olympics, most of the time, I feel like I'm seeing a more honest expression of athleticism, in the events themselves, though, of course, I understand the Olympics are as rife with scandal, corruption, greed, and corporate sponsorship as all those Other Sports. Don't worry. I'm a cynic, too. But the Olympics stir some faint ember of idealism. Besides, I just enjoy watching a lot of the events, namely gymnastics, swimming, and diving. The nationalism annoys me, especially the way that American broadcasters have grown increasingly disinterested in non-American competitors, but I watch, anyway. Well, not the really odd stuff, like beach volleyball and water polo. Archery's cool though, and weightlifting.

There are days, like today, when I wish I lived in New York. Today, for instance, I'd blow off the writing, spend part of the day in Central Park and the other part at the Museum of Natural History, then have dinner at the Yaffa Cafe on St. Marks. But I don't live in New York. I live in Atlanta. So, I guess I'll try to write, instead.