shaken & stirred

welcome to my martini glass


It is officially spring, for George has decreed it so, with his waggy tail and perky ears. It's true that animals know. I'd thought maybe it was spring before--even though it dropped down into the 40s over the weekend--but I was wrong. It was just unseasonably, or perhaps pre-seasonably, good weather. Today though, this afternoon, Winter and Spring had a fight and Spring won. It was rainy, cold, generally blustery and the kind of weather that makes you feel like you live in the mannerhouse of Russian tragedy, whether you do or not. This afternoon, the sun slowly emerged, the birds swanned around like they'd known it all along, even the breeze was warm.

And George had it in his step, that secret knowledge. That secret knowledge that no doubt comes from desperately needing your heavy winter coat shaved off suddenly so romping outside does not make you want to combust.

There it is.

I had lots of links for today, but feh, it's gotten late, I haven't answered e-mail, so why should I bother? Most of them can be found if you go poking around at the New York Times "Most E-mailed Articles." Some of them cannot. Some of them may have gone missing. It was nothing earth-shattering, I promise. The one exception, not to earth-shattering, but to New York Times, is a piece on Cat Powers focusing mainly on the live experience at the Washington Post. I don't think the reporter has ever actually done so, but just heard rumors. Which makes the whole enterprise a little arch.

Hmmm... Christopher's at the ballpark with the menfolk, bonding or talking business or something like that. I suppose I'll fill my wine glass, pick something to eat than can be heated, watch the news and finish the last of the Steven Millhauser novellas, since that book is woefully a day late. Which is just ridiculous. I refuse to become a "renew freak" what with it being so easy to just read the damn things and take them the block and a half down there on times. There's an impetus at work that doesn't happen when you actually own a book and could read it any old year. I'm racing the clock. It's like a game. And now I've lost. But will I backslide? No, I will finish the novella, and get the book back tomorrow and pay my 20 cents of late fees with the proper chagrin. That's what I'll do.

You, on the other hand, should go buy the new Realms of Fantasy (surprisingly cleavage-less cover this time) and read Chris Barzak's wonderful, sad mermaid story. It's very, very good. And if he ever updated his blog, I'm sure he'd do an entry about how it was out, and maybe even when he wrote it and where it came from. But he doesn't, so you will have to content yourselves with buying and absorbing his essence through the precious words, rather than the precious cyberspace.

(See you soon.)

And typing of Chris reminds me of the Pop Culture dance class that's starting soon in town, where you learn popular eighties dances with the appropriate tongue in cheek. But. Must. Eat. Food. Now.


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