17 October 2002 - 11:58 a.m.

My Anything Goes CD came.

And the great Karmic wheel turned so that I would be unable to locate the disk on which I had saved the essay I worked on all week this week AND last week, and which is due today-ish.

Crap.

Too bad I've been so busy listening to "It's Delovely," talking about The Seventh Victim, and hanging out at Don-Ho's Hawaiian Lounge to discover that. Till now.

Oops.

But I can handle it. I'm a pro. I used to churn out an essay a week for Aitch, usually in about 6 hours.

In fact, this week has smacked of Aitch so much that I swear to God he's ambling around somewhere in Virginia, yellow socks and broken toe and all, muttering to himself about how I had better be keeping a "safe distance" from you-know-who.

Oh, Aitch. If you are reading this, I read your whole book, almost, last weekend, and you would have turned me out of your office on my ear had I shown such hubris in punctuating.

But other than that, I love it, and you, pal.

But if Aitch is here, why can't he have brought Tinsel with him? Tinselet, I am wearing my ROCK ON t-shirt, green shorts, and black satin slippers. In the grand scheme of fashion, we are all fools.

Why am I so damn maudlin all of a sudden?

Sigh. I don't know what to write. I'm sort of feeling like I need to keep in mind the law of conservation of words: the more I type here, the less I'll get to type in my personal essay. Maybe I'll just have another cup of tea and wait for the muse to find me.

What I'm wearing:

What I'm reading:

What I'm doing after this: