Good morning, ladies and germs. Sorry 'bout that, don't know what got into me.

I meant to post this link yesterday, but never got around to it. There's a big, infuriating article about the Death of Southern Literature over at the Washington Post. Lee Smith, and others, seem a little bewildered by the logic at work. The reporter, however, had his mind made up. Guess he never heard of Andy Duncan or Terry Bisson. (Or Christopher Rowe. Hi, sweetie!)

Last night we didn't go see Jonathan Carroll read. I felt really guilty about it, pertinent spines glancing woefully at me from every bookshelf, but we were both just too tired. (Wouldn't Pertinent Spines be a great name for a band?) I hope there were lots of people there. Instead we watched our new favorite show, the Ultimate Survivor, this Canadian reality show about a group of athletic people traveling to the Arctic Circle. More on that some other time.

Talked on the phone some. Drank some nice Australian chardonnay.

I spent a lovely hour or so reading the limited edition chapbook of Alex Irvine's story "Down in the Fog-Shrouded City," that we picked up at World Fantasy. A beautiful, wonderful story that actually offers hope, a rare thing in fiction these days. Nicely done, Alex. You can buy a copy from Wormhole Books. I can't recommend it highly enough and the chapbook itself is a highly beautiful object.

Been listening to yo la tengo's and then nothing turned itself inside out. That's probably enough said.