I'm liking this novel I got the other day, The Chinatown Death Cloud Peril--historical fiction (kind of) about pulp fiction writers...young Ron Hubbard, Lester Dent, Walter Gibson. Unlike the dames in pulp fiction, the women in the book are fully realized, fully drawn people. One of the cool things about it is the domestic scenes between these cats who write about Doc Savage and The Shadow, being in relationships. It's a really fun read.
Two shows last week, one in Salem at Boon's (pretty good) and one at Kelly's Olympian in Portland (super fun.) Went to brunch and then to Ikea with Norm and Brenda (wild, until we ran out of steam). Found a double live Dead Moon and the first Sonics record--NW rock 101 for DJ. Put together my Ikea bathroom cabinet yesterday. Up to Centralia with my sweetheart tomorrow for another solo show tomorrow. Practiced some songs tonight with Sugar Beets Marty for his big birthday bash at Luna on 3/29--we're gonna do Walkin' Blue, On Vacation, and a couple Peter Wilde songs. In short, I'm toast, and I'm going to bed. Overloaded on Dem Prez intrigue--did Keith Olbermann just compare Ferraro to...David Duke....? Yes, he did. It has been a fun show but now that the Dem wagons are circled for a big gun fight, I think I'll do something practical, like plant a damn tree. What I notice is my shifts in emotion based on nothing more than the digital equivalent of gossip. Though it really does seem like Ferraro had a racist meltdown and that Clinton looked the other way. The suspension of common sense and reasonable, decent goals makes the whole thing a real corn dog with no dog. I didn't think the Clintons were phony a year ago, what the F happened? Is any of this real? It's like that joke about the proctologist--"some A-hole on the fourth floor has my pen."