You know what? If you're actually reading this, you deserve a break. Go read this marvelous article on the history of Tim Buckley's "Song to the Siren" – which is of obvious importance to The Drowning Girl: A Memoir – and, if after having read it, you can stand any more of my ranting, please feel free to come back. I won't have my feelings hurt if you don't. Also, my sincere thanks to Craig Gidney for (inadvertently) alerting me to the article.
Jesus motherfucking tapdancing Christ on a pogo stick.
Okay, forget the inexplicable weather. Forget my reclusive bullshit. Forget my need to swim. All that crap. Last night, as I was struggling to get to sleep and stay asleep, there came from...somewhere...a sound that likely scared the shit out of Moses. It was an essentially indescribable sound. Sort of like someone had dropped Santa and his sleigh and all those reindeer on the roof of the house. It was sort of like that. Spooky and I both sat up, pretty much terrified. To make a not-so-long story very short, Hubero had knocked my collection of bottle caps – stored in glass jars – off the top of the shelf between the stove and the fridge. There was glass everywhere, and about a thousand bottle caps. At least a thousand. Which I have been obsessively saving since June 2008. And the order they'd gone into the jars, that was extremely important, and now I can never, ever get them back in that way, and I swear to dog I almost murdered the little shit.
Yes, I know. I take the pills my doctor prescribes, and at least it wasn't finger- and toenail clippings, and at least I will not now be forced to spend every waking hour of the next week sorting said clippings by hand and foot, left and right. So, it could have been worse.
Hubero's still on my shit list, though. Then again, my shit list is longer than the OED, so it's essentially a meaningless document, carrying about as much menace as the threat displays of Heterodon platirhinos. I'll just buy new jars.
I'm not even sure what I did do yesterday. There was some email. Oh, Bill Schaffer at Subterranean Press sent me the first two volumes of The Complete Stories of Philip K. Dick (both of which I think are sold out, so thank you, Bill). That very much didn't suck. I read "A giant crocodile from the Plio-Pleistocene of Kenya, the phylogenetic relationships of Neogene African crocodylines, and the antiquity of Crocodylus in Africa." The new giant crocodile in question, Crocodylus thorbjarnarsoni, was a giant, indeed. Very closely related to the living Nile crocodile (Crocodylus niloticus), fossils indicate that it like reached lengths of 25-27 feet, and may have been one of the greatest threats to early Homo.
Okay. I can talk about crocodiles without getting pissed.
Ah, and I've also continued reworking the plot of Fay Grimmer. In my head. My editor will likely not even recognize it, relative to the proposal that sold the book. This cannot be helped. The book will be the book the book will be.
Also, I didn't realize until this morning it's an Olympic summer. And I love the Olympics. Obviously, I love the Olympics more than do a lot of Brits, and yet, I didn't know it was an Olympic summer.
Fuck, it's sunny...