My Sherlock Holmes coffee mug has disappeared. I don't know where it could have gone, but if I find it in my grandmother's purse….
The Beetle must be a magnet for mishaps. Today, rear-ended in precisely the same quadrant as the previous accident. Similar damage, too. People are fucking idiots.
I'm reading a sequel to a book I absolutely despised. I do not despise the sequel. Neither am I particularly excited by the sequel. It is, to coin a phrase, boring. And we are quickly approaching page fifty, and it's possible I may kick out.
Some may ask, why finish a book I despised, if I kick at page fifty if I'm not hooked? That's just it–that book didn't excite me, but at least I felt something, though perhaps not something the author would have wished.
The Who sent me an e-mail alerting me to the imminent sale of concert albums taken from their current 2006 European concert tour. Seems like half of my Who collection consists of live albums. Some might say that Live at Leeds, at least in its Ultimate configuration, is all you need, and they would be right. That doesn't keep me from buying more live Who. Maybe it's that I like Zak Starkey on drums. He's not Keith Moon, but he's at least as good a drummer as his dad, Ringo Starr.
I got a spam e-mail today from Kevin Kline. It's bad when the spambots start appropriating the names of famous actors, especially ones I like. I've gotten used to the surrealistic messages that mean absolutely nothing, though. Sometimes I think we've reached the point where we need the Voight-Kampf test and Blade Runners.
I've always thought the ideal sequel to Blade Runner would involve Deckard slugging it out with a Predator. I don't know why; the idea just appeals to me.
I conducted two interviews at work today. One was mind-numbingly awful. The other was actually halfway decent. Unfortunately, I don't have a position to fill, and even if I did I talked to a candidate yesterday that interviewed better and has more (and better) experience.
I've been drinking root beer of late, rather than cream soda.
I want more lime sherbet. I think I'll fix some, sit on the porch, and read that book, the one that I'm perilously close to kicking.
It occurs to me that perhaps the page fifty rule is too harsh. There's a Star Trek book that I really enjoyed–Diane Carey's Chainmail–but only because I skipped ahead to page 100, after the slogging my way for days through the first thirty pages. Page 100, though, and the book flew like a dream.
I fixed pineapple sherbet instead.
Marvin the Martian Manhunter would be a really cool amalgamated character for Duck Dodgers.
That is all.