I just took George the Dog for a nice walk. Just a short one, around two blocks, because it's hot and being out at the farm, his feet have forgotten how hot the sidewalks get. And how we have to be careful to avoid broken beer bottle glass. (It's always broken beer bottle glass, as if beer bottles are suicidial or something. "Just do it, hurl me to the ground, come on, you know you want to," they say in their brown, slurry voices.)

It was nice. I'm going to talk Mr. Rowe into taking me to sit out in the very nice sunshine somewhere for a drink. I've felt out of sorts all day, for reasons of being slightly ill and for reasons of being slightly ill for other reasons. Sunshine will melt it away.

We're trying to reestablish the love, and just talking over stuff related to screenwriting, or movies or Battlecats or whatever here. So, come on by.

We got so much mail today that they couldn't get it in our box and I got to bring it home in a plastic carton. How cool is that? There's a package and three submissions for Say... Several submissions, we've gotten now, and the reading period just started, which is nice. And the DVD of It Happened One Night. If only we didn't have to go to the gym and write, write, write; that's the making of a perfect evening.

George says hi.