wildcat

In the localized miserable monsoon weather, I've decided to make up for what amounted to an indecent day by (surprise) reading Fantastic Four comics, eating chocolate, and walking around with no pants on. I'm also going to write stupid fiction which I hope nobody will ever see.

Other people spend the holidays listening to Christmas carols and watching A Christmas Story, a movie which has a dubious connection with my parents' divorce. Instead of reading A Child's Christmas in Wales, I'm reading The Fall of the House of Usher and other gothic tales by Mister Poe. And a book about Ranulph Fiennes and how he became an pulp-tastic explorer.

Joy talked about the opening antics of the Mad Typewriter Gang, but failed to mention the bottle of champagne I downed that evening, the Diane DiPrima poetry we recited in unison on a broken-down couch, or how good that Jack Daniels tasted. Warm! It was like liquid warmth. Or the five minutes where Joy and I commistered about the lack of typewriters at the pawn shop on Johnson Street with the yellow awnings (the ones that announce "CDs! Videos!" et cetera), while Caroline seemed to be in a parallel dimension where we discussed cameras with her. We did indeed find one typewriter which was by all accounts perfect, but it was heavy as sin and right at the beginning: we couldn't cart that around all day, and there was only one! There were also fights over who would get the magical beast. And Matt kept leaving, but then he'd come back and it was like things were the way they were supposed to be. Again. I never really got drunk, but I was definitely in a multiple reality mood.