We've hung all the art, because we finally had everything framed or prepped. It looks amazing in here now. Coming home is like being greeted by a crowd of friends.

Yesterday I took one of my favorite pornographers (and Mrs. Pornographer) who were visiting the city to Toronto's huge artisan and crafts fair, where I made substantial headway on my holiday shopping with things I bought from the people who made them.

(And also had a weird exchange with a woman at a jam stand who was all about bonding with me about making my own chutney - until she found out I was a homo. I shrug my shoulders. Really, Jamstress?)

I spent the day doing outreach to some of the brilliant artists and authors I know about a project, which mostly meant sending emails full of well-deserved compliments to nice people. Not a hardship duty. Many of them have already written back, with great warmth.

And now I have a mug of ice cream and am in my sweats on the couch, reading (or I will be, momentarily). Dog at the end of the couch. Husband in the bath, laughing at whatever he's reading. Chickpeas soaking, ready to be tomorrow's project.

Though admittedly a bit strange, my life is very, very nice.

I'm memestarting: what's a nice, relatively accessible thing you forget about and every time you remember go "Oh, yeah! That's great!"

For me today, it's roasted chestnuts, made at home. Simplest thing in the world, just cut or stab an X into the tops and pop them in the oven (toaster oven will also totally work) on 400 for, er, a while. Until you smell them, maybe fifteen minutes. They come out sweet and steaming, and you can just eat them for breakfast, or put them in things, like salads or northern Italian pasta dishes (Secret Agent Lover Man is getting penne somewhat-carbonara with asparagus and chestnuts for dinner, though he knows it not). Or steam them after roasting and mix with rice; very Japanese. Add to oatmeal. &c.

I forget all about chestnuts until they get put out in the big regular grocery for stuffing, I suppose. They have them at our pan-asian grocery all year, though. I seem, however, to have Seasonal Chestnut Amnesia.

Okay, now you. Please post your own similar nice thing you forget about?

Multiple award-winning writer, performer, gender-jammer and instigator S Bear Bergman returns to Sodom By The Bay with hir new book, The Nearest Exit May Be Behind You. Alternately unsettling and affirming, devastating and delicious, The Nearest Exit May Be Behind You is a new collection of essays on gender and identity that's irrevocably honest and endlessly illuminating. With humour and grace, Bergman spins stories from women’s spaces to the old boys' network, from gay male bathhouses to lesbian potlucks, from being a child to preparing to have one; and throughout shows just what kind of things you learn when you’re visibly queer to the naked eye. As usual, expect digressions, jokes, off-label stories, time for questions and reckless flirting.

cost: Pay What You Can, suggested donation $10. No one will be turned away for lack of funds. Books will also be available for sale from the literist@s at Modern Times.

**seating is limited**! please, RSVP by email to booking at sbearbergman dot com with your name and and the number of people.

Sunday, 15 November
7:30pm (doors at 7)
Center for Sex and Culture
1519 Mission

The problem with LJ these days is that there are some thing brewing I am just not quite ready to blog about. And so I try to figure out how to edit that bit out from the other bits, and discover to no one's surprise that they're all connected underneath. Oh, Muriel Rukeyser, you were so right. However:

There was an NYC trip, which was lovely and meant we got to see a lot of people I personally really like, including the fantatsic boymeat and kathryntact who so kindly let us stay at their house, and a few minutes with lolitasir and naylandblake each, separately, but with a certain amount of smooching and extraction of promises to Visit Again Soon, Dammit.

Check.

Queer Shabbaton NYC 09 was marvelous, and I am not just saying that because it was run in part by my dear nicejewishbutch, in whose company we basked, and we talked and learned and ate and ate and ate.

We ate fantastic food elsewhere in the city (including the most amazing shojin cuisine meal at Kajitsu), saw Altar Boyz (our wedding gift from sweetambiguity and makeplayhappen, celebrated my Secret Agent Lover Man's birthday, ate with my family, and generally elsewise caroused.

My reading in Bklyn at Collect Pond was great, fun, well attended. My awesome hosts made delicious food for the guests, even. The crowd was warm (and hot!), attentive and engaged, and lots of people I didn't know were there. Which was, in a word, odd. But also (let's be honest) awesome.

A nice Aussie artist, a friend of an old friend, was there and exclaimed "I've never been to a book reading! I had no idea they were such fun!" Didn't know how to tell her that it's not always friendly hotties and delicious homemade food and a performer on the stage. Oh, well.

Off in the morning for book tour: Vancouver, Seattle, San Francisco, and Fort Collins/Colorado State (please note a change of venue in Vancouver - the event is now at Wise Hall, 1882 Adanac Street). Come see me? And, if you do, please come and say hello?

Now back to locating everything I want to pack and finishing all the cooking for my SALM to eat while I'm away. We haven't been apart this long in a long, long time. I predict many, many video chats.

My hotel doesn't have any cell signal at all! So I turn it off. Last night. Why do we care? Because my alarm is on it! I am now 90 minutes behind schedule!

Signal reappears. Nine voicemails? Sorry, rexlezard! And others, too.

They moved the RMV! To where? Easthampton.

My RMV needs are handled by Dot, who is wearing a seasonal sweater. Black cat and ghost. No extra punctuation is even remotely necessary.

Car inspection time! My car is in fine shape, right? No! Three bulbs are missing.

36 dollars later, I go to get snow tires. They tell me this will take 45 minutes. It takes 90!

Did I mention that is has been pissing rain all day?

Very short, very nice visit with callyboy.

Snow tires are %$#@! expensive! But they grip the road. Unlike the tires of many people I see as I drive to my folks house. Bad accidents everywhere!

Food, food, food. Food! And more food. My mom's a good cook, thank g-d.

I can't find where I'm supposed to meet my brother! Possibly because it's pitch dark and the middle of nowhere? And still raining!

Add to this all the many, many exclamation points in my Secret Agent Lover Man's day, and we've cornered the market. Hope you all had uneventful days or, failing that, don't intend to write about them, because we're using them all today. Sorry. You can have them back tomorrow.

What's that? It's tomorrow already?

Fuckity.

(without editing)

Colorado State University airport
h1n1 virus
h1n1 pneumonia
medically induced coma
air canada wifi
Albany NY queer
ADA accesibility
Vancouver performance space wheelchair accessible
powerchair turn radius
Ahimsa Timoteo Bodhrán
NYC marathon route
Upper West Side vegan
Manhattan JCC
minnesota obituaries
sesame seed calcium
stress coping techniques
stress relief

Multiple award-winning writer, performer, gender-jammer and instigator S Bear Bergman returns to The Big Apple after a two year hiatus with hir new book, "The Nearest Exit May Be Behind You. Alternately unsettling and affirming, devastating and delicious, The Nearest Exit May Be Behind You is a new collection of essays on gender and identity that's irrevocably honest and endlessly illuminating. With humour and grace, Bergman spins stories from women’s spaces to the old boys' network, from gay male bathhouses to lesbian potlucks, from being a child to preparing to have one; and throughout shows just what kind of things you learn when you’re visibly queer to the naked eye. As usual, expect digressions, jokes, off-label stories, time for questions and reckless flirting.


cost: Pay What You Can, suggested donation $15, which includes food. No one will be turned away for lack of funds.

**seating is limited**! please, RSVP to booking at sbearbergman dot com with your name and and the number of people.


Sunday, November 1, 2009

7:30pm - 10:30pm

Collect Pond
45 Berry Street, corner of N 11th St
(Subway: L to Bedford or G to Nassau)
Brooklyn, NY

I have made batch #2 of scones, and set them in the high windowsill to cool. Butterscotch again, with a light sanding of sugar.

Those of you with fantastic scone recipes should post them, yes? I am always pleased to branch out.

First, I made them. Last night, according to the recipe for Blueberry Muffins in one of those memoir with recipe kinds of books? I'd made them before, over the summer, and they turned out to produce a dough, not a batter.

Fine, okay. If it's a dough, they're scones. Luckily we had a scone pan. A cast iron one, like my Secret Agent Lover Man's granny used to have. I got it for him as a birthday gift, I think, or maybe for Chanukah? Anyway, he never used it. But I pulled it out, once I had scone dough.

The last step of the recipe called for mixing in the bluberries. That didn't happen on account of texture issues as above; I ended up having to press them into the top. They were still good.

That was last summer's batch. I made the same scones again last night, with butterscotch chips in.

So this morning, I get up and realize the scones are gone. I ask my SALM if he put them away? Nope. The dog got them, and ate the 8 remaining butterscotch-chip scones, dusted with sugar.

I take her to the park, where she runs around like only a totally sugar-high lab does. I complain to Watson's person, whose name I either never knew or cannot remember about this. She asks in disbelief if I made the scones this morning?

Nope, I reply. Last night.

Oh, she says. That's good, I can't imagine how early you'd have to have gotten up to make them today already. (It was 8:15am, at this point)

Nah, it's quick, I tell her. Fifteen minutes to mix, fifteen to bake. And there are only half-a-dozen ingredients - flour, salt, sugar, egg, milk, and some sort of fruit or chips or something. Easy.

She shakes her head at me, and says oh, you're one of those people. You just bake things. I'm always so stressed out about it, I can never do it.

I don't really think of myself as one of those people. Though it is true that I'm going to make another batch, as soon as I run out for some butter. Especially because it's a cold gross day and nothing is better on a cold day than warm baked goods.

Hm. Maybe I'll make a loaf of bread, too.

I've seen the phrase "off the reservation" used several times in the past few weeks in a disparaging way - in the New York Times, on boing boing, and in other places.

In case you were unaware, this is a racist phrase. It refers to the period of time during which Native American/First Nations people were confined by law to their reservations, and leaving without permission from a white authority was a crime. To be "off the reservation" was to have broken the colonizers' law. Punishments for people were were caught doing such dangerous, criminal things as providing for their families or visiting relatives could be severe.

I think especially in US, where we are less sensitized to colonization and its effects, this is less-well known. So I figured, what better way to observe this "holiday" than to offer a bit of education. Nicer than a smallpox-infested blanket, no? I'm a sport like that.

Dear person belonging to big rangy boxer/retriever/dane mix named Will,

Yes, it is raining outside indeed. Yes, it certainly is easier to see this nice blaze orange street hockey ball than a dingy dirty tennis ball when both are in the grass. Yes, I do know that dogs play by bouncing around like that, but my dog is nine-and-a-half years old and is clearly making distress barks when your two-year-old bundle of enthusiasm and mud clots knocks her over. Repeatedly. Please settle him down.

Yes, I know that it's difficult to settle an excited dog down. Maybe you'd be willing to just walk the other way? Mmmkay, thanks.

no love,
Bear

1. I played pioneer cook today, cutting brussels sprouts off their stalks and pulling beets out of the garden to roast and doing various other of the sort of grimy but ultimately satisfying things you get to do when your food is pretty recently out of the ground and has not been passed through the enpackagification process of a supermarket.

1a. And wondered if I could make soup out of the brussels sprouts stalk?

1b. And gave myself a wicked hand cramp peeling garlic. I haven;t had a hand cramp like that in I don't know how long.

1c. Uh, actually, yes I do. Never mind.

2. It is way too cold to walk Levi Jane wearing only Crocs. I do it anyway, because I cannot seem to get it together to buy new snow clogs. That's next week, I think.

3. Next week! Columbus and Athens, OH. Let me know if you need information or directions or, uh, anything. See some of you there. Woot!

3a. Next week I also get four days of zevinboots. ::grin::

4. Kindle Global is available in &^%$#! Bosnia, but not Canada, due to some sort of &%$#! Canadian regulations about the &%$#! wireless frequency. All of Canada is pissed about this. Jian Ghomeshi went on for five solid minutes about it this morning. Rargh.

5. And now all the vegetables are ready, and I am going to go and eat a bowlful of them, with salt. Nom.

Dear tiny people who live in the computer:

I want to be clear that it makes me seriously happy every time I announce a tour schedule and people start tweeting/liking/replying/commenting to say "Are you coming to [$mytown]?" I love the enthusiasm, I love the sense of being welcomed, I love that people are keen about me and my work.

I also get a little dejected when it happens, because I can't go everywhere. I'm not independently wealthy, nor am I a bestselling author like John Grisham whose publishers arrange 25-city tours if he's willing to do them. For me and most of us, these events require some money and/or some planning from the people at the destination end.

So until someone leaves a ten-pound box of folding money on my doorstep, here are some things you can do to get me or any author, performer, or musician you want to see perform a live show to your town:

1. Get in cahoots with the students at the nearest college or university.

Universities have large budgets for what's called Student Activities. This is the giant rubric under which lectures, films, comedians/hypnotists/magicians, theater performances, readings, concerts, &c all fall. Most universities have some kind of a system by which a student who is keen can create a proposal and budget, gain cosponsors from across university departments and offices, and pull off a show - sometimes even a Very Big Name, certainly someone much fancier than me.

Another way to do this is for a bunch of students to simply go write or call the Student Activities office and say "We want [$famousperson]. If enough of them do it, the Student Activities people will at least look into it.

2. Look into local arts grants

Many municipalities have some money to bring arts to the region or support the arts. See if your library has reading series money, or if your community center or theater group does. Sometimes you can suggest a cultural worker (author/artist/musician/speaker) or a group (do you belong to a local group?) can apply for funds. Especially a good one if you live, um, anywhere in the world except the 48 contiguous United States (in US, Alaska especially has pots of arts money).

3. Partner with a local cultural, religious, or political group to do an event.

I do a few events each year with local LGBTQ groups - is there one, or something similar, where you are or encompassing the identity(ies) of the person you want to bring? Approach them about the idea, and offer to take the point position on organizing it. Even if your group doesn;t have a lot of spare cash, this is possible. Many cultural workers will do a few events per hear where they make no or very little money, just get expenses covered - this is called a benefit.

Here's a big, important tip though - wait to write and ask until you already have buy-in from your local group - and preferably until your proposed date has been chosen, location has been secured, &c.

4. BYO$

If you, or you and a group of friends, can put together some cash - lets assume travel plus $1k-$3k would be a reasonable range depending on how famous your target person is and how far away they are - you can just have a private event. If you can buy me a plane ticket and play me somewhere on my usual fee scale, I will personally be more than happy to come and read to you while you pit cherries if that's what you want, or to be the post-dinner entertainment at your salon, or whatever.

5. Work with your local bookstore/reading series

If there's a local bookstore or series that wants to invite an author, they can certainly ask their publishers to send them there. It will help if you can reassure people that you'll personally get the word out, bring all your friends, et al. Big lively readings rock for all participants. Empty ones, not so much.




The key to all of these things is that unless you live in a large, probably coastal city (or Chicago) full of queers, in which people will just flock at the sound of your target person's name, you are your best bet for getting the show you want. You can and should assess your options, make a plan, take it on and get it done. You'll even get to spend some one-on-one time with them: breakfast, airport ride, whatever. You're doing the work, right? So you get the reward (and if forty-five minutes alone in the car to chill out and chat with your target person doesn't seem like a reward, you may not want to devote this much work to bringing them.) If you can take ownership of some or all of the tasks, work your network, stay on top of things, and devote time and energy to the task you can probably bring almost anyone to your town for a live show.

Especially me. Please pick a method, do your groundwork, and then send me an invitation? Because I would /love/ to come. ::grin::

1. I went ahead and got the new iPhone GS, as my birthday gift from my grandmothers. It's true that my old iPhone, which was passed on to me by a similarly gadgety pal, still works. But now I can pass it along myself, once this new one is successfully unlocked, thereby passing on the love. Which makes it somwhat less self-indulgent that I went out and bought a new one. Right? Yes.

2. Also for my birthday, my Secret Agent Lover Man got me fiddle lessons. I have been wanting to learn to fiddle since I don't even know when, but it has been a long, long time. He rented me a fiddle and bought me a beginners package of lessons. I'm pretty excited to start, next week I think. I have no idea if I'll be any good at it, but I'd like to try. So much of the music I really enjoy has fiddling in it, or could do.

3. Yesterday we saw Secrets of a Black Boy, the "male counterpart" to trey anthony's 'Da Kink In My Hair, written by her brother. It was very, very good. Very well written, thoughtfully staged, smart, stylish, and it was a funny little pleasure to see a show set somewhere I'm very familiar with, so all the references made sense to me. I imagine it will tour, in much the same way 'Da Kink did, and I would encourage people to see it - especially if the cast stays the same. One of the characters is played by a young transguy, and that too tweaked my appreciation of the show up a notch.

4. I love CBC radio, and I really love how frequently they find geektastic people who are super-enthusiastic about their fields to come on the radio and talk about them. This morning, I developed an interest in Italian convents of the 16th century thanks to someone called Sarah Dunant (garrity, you might like to download this morning's podcast of Sunday Edition, just because she's so charming and excitable), and then went right on a renewed interest in Benny Goodman's later music because of jazz writer Gary Giddins.

5. Nuit Blanche was fantastic again this year, even if we didn't see as much as last year. I really appreciate that Toronto just...does art all night once a year. We got to enjoy a bunch of the more interactive installations, marvel at some super cool visual art, and drink hot cocoa out of metal mugs with the word MERCY imprinted in the bottom. I really, really want to do a storytelling project next year, where I get two big overstuffed chairs and coffee table and a nice hot spiked drink, and sit with each individual as they come by and have a cup of something and tell stories to each other, with the stories being recorded and then rebroadcast on a delay, so anyone in the audience is "overhearing," but not in real time. I just have to get the call for submissions in time, which it freakishly early. By the time I looked least year in early spring, it was passed. Oh, well.

5a. Another of the things we saw at Nuit Blanche was an interactive live-video/projection project in which we had a "practice marriage." I wore a veil. There's a photo. Heh.

Hey, The Nearest Exit May Be Behind You is released today! Well, sort of - my publishers will sell it to you right this minute, which will be speedy for Canadians.

Amazon & Powell's both say Monday, and certainly, you could stop in to your local independent bookstore and request that they get it in which, while slower, would be nice indeed.

It's pretty exciting. I haven't seen it in bookly form yet, but I should get them soon. I am also cooking up a tour schedule for book launches, which so far has Toronto, Vancouver, Seattle, and SF confirmed, with Boston, Baltimore and NYC coming-soon-we-hope.

To that end, a poll:

Poll #1465007 NYC Book Launch question for NYC peeps
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 14

Would you come to Williamsburg (Brooklyn) for my book launch?

Several very fantastic people said nice things about it, about which I am - of course - both delighted and also shy. But here they are. And then I will stop talking about this (at least until you come to a show or a reading, or contact me about hosting one. Ahem).

Bear Bergman writes circles around most people—circles that enclose so many identities, and so much insight about all of them, that you’re bound to see some of your own selves newly, and beautifully, reflected there.
―Carol Queen, author of Real Live Nude Girl

Life having the unpredictable crossroads it does, I've often wondered how memoirists handle the problem of writing a second book. Thanks to Bear Bergman's The Nearest Exit May Be Behind You, I know the answer: one goes about it with good-humored smarts, candid humility, and a queer and delightful generosity of spirit.
—Hanne Blank, author of Virgin: The Untouched History

If we could just clone Bergman’s brain and manners, the world would be a much better place, indeed. This new collection of meditations, essays, and stories about living visibly queer is complex in beautifully simple ways.
—Helen Boyd, author of My Husband Betty

Bear Bergman is an endearing, gallant, sexy fellow, the queer world's daddy, brother, and son. In Nearest Exit, he's writing it all down for us, today's transgender experience. This is a landmark book for both queer theory and literature, written by an accomplished teller of tales. It's a book that will be cherished by generations of queer youth and adults alike. My heart overflows the brim with love and pride when I read his words.
—Kate Bornstein, author of Hello, Cruel World

It is rare that I pick up a book and see my life reflected in the words inside it. Bear Bergman has written parts of my life down for me to look at from another direction—a funny, compassionate, nimble-tongued and Jewish direction. I want to give a copy of this book to everyone in my family, with love.
—Ivan E. Coyote, author of The Slow Fix

1. I am on a new program of getting up earlier and getting some shit done in the morning, which I am enjoying. We will see how long I am able keep enjoying it, but for now it's kind of great.

2. Part of this program includes finally addressing myself to my Rosetta Stone French lessons, which are actually really good and causing me to learn things, especially if all I ever have to do in French is narrate the actions of a group of people in real time. And all they do is eat, drink, run, walk, swim, cook, read, write, and drive. I imagine other verbs, and perhaps tenses, will be forthcoming.

2a. The Rosetta Stone software, which has a see-and-say function that tests you on your ability to say things correctly, approves of my (admittedly craptacular) French accent on all words except one: l'eau. It will not accept any rendition so far, no matter how earnest. Clearly, the answer is to stick with milk or wine (words I have learned already, and can sort-of pronounce).

3. In cleaning out the last few boxes of stuff from my former US apartment (do not ask, please) I have come across a batch of folders full of letters from assorted pornographers (Steven Saylor, TR Witomski, and Scott O'Hara, if those names mean anything to you) to John Preston. They're wonderful. I remember why I saved them, now.

4. I don't usually read three books at once, but I currently have At Large and At Small: Familiar Essays (Fadiman), *A Short History of Nearly Everything (Bryson), and Outliers (Gladwell) on the go at the same time. They go together surprisingly well.

4a. ps to panjianlien, pursuant to our kitchen-table conversation, the intro and first three chapters of the Bryson might do you well.

5. Lest you imagine I have somehow become a paragon of virtue with all this cleaning and learning, I want to assure you that tomorrow night we are having Bear's Birthday Observed (since my SALM and I were apart on the day of) and that it is to include a wide variety of non-kosher, high fat cured meat products at The Black Hoof, and then hit up Buddies In Bad Times Theater to see their season opening show Neon Nights, an experiential piece about a Montreal strip club, complete - so I am told - with lap dances.

6. Perhaps there is an essay in my next book entitled On Choosing One's Vices Carefully.

In our house we have....a problem. It's a problem related to what my ex-wife called provideritis, an affliction thatseems especially prevalent in the masculinely gendered but is by no means our exclusive province, and which somehow acts upon the sufferer to, among other things, purchase large quantities of foodstuffs. Some of these are things upon which we intend to "stock up" and some are things we simply imagine our spouse would like, or that we want to have handy for a rainy day, or some other thing which we in our fevered imaginations concoct.

In its most harmless form, this results in cases of chickpeas and bottled water, bales of toilet paper, and stacks of brand-new, slightly irregular towels. While I recognize that even this mild symptomology is offensive to some people, for most it's annoying at best, at least until the bulwarks of laid-in dry goods threaten to overwhelm the laundry room and collapse the shelving.

But here, we are suffering from a more difficult form, that of the Island of Broken Foods phenomenon. Things no one ever ate, despite them being procured to tempt them, which are now really no longer good to eat but nonetheless still sealed in their (oh, fuck) recyclable packaging. There are bins of the best and deliciousest ice cream with three freezerburned spoonfuls left, looking forlorn but somehow representing the promise of something good, likewise in a recyclable container. There are things no one ever liked, things no one liked much the first time, and things far more expensive than they should have been and therefore somehow not throw-outable by either of us.

If we were not having this problem, we could - for example - have room for the lovely fig jam panjianlien gifted us with. And the two giant pots of fresh tomato sauce which will eventually be jarred and are the current undertaking of my Secret Agent Lover Man as I write this. We could have a better organized freezer, a more easily managed basket of treats, and someone would eventually get to the bottom of the teetering towering stack of bags of nuts that somehow never gets finished despite my steadfast promise that I would never ever buy another nut again, ever.

Bags are a problem. I like things that come in, or can be decanted into, jars and boxes better. Bags are so slippyslidey.

I know, deep down, that I am simply going to have to get a garbage bag and go through the house and rescue all the spoiled foods and all the last-dead-bits and all of their containers and then go and throw them in a dumpster somewhere to avoid having to even have them in the garage as they...come to room temperature. But this time, this time, I will be smarter. I will never again buy a million things we'll never eat. I will always decant things into jars and boxes, and always some other things and never some other other things. Oh, yes I surely will.

The worst part? Now I'm hungry. And while we seem to have something like a hundred million bags of dried fruit that's gone all funny-coloured and congealed into a single menacing lump, there's not one plain cracker in the house.

::sigh::

Been feeling behind, but his photo about sums it up, no?

(joke makes more sense if you know that the postcard the baby is chewing on is the promo postcard for my next book, which looks just like the cover of it).

The thing is, I have been thinking about writing a long recap post, starting with, I dunno, the wedding, I guess and moving through book finishing and then camping (aka The Annual Proof of Love) and into our work-cation (which was marvelous).

I have this backlog problem, though, in which the more I get caught up behind a bunch of things I ought to have written about the more I feel I can't move forward until I have the old stuff sorted. But if we're being honest with ourselves - and we are, right? - there's no way I'm going to get that stuff sorted. So fine. Moving on.

The photo above will take you through to a small collection of vacation photos, plus a video of sea lions being noisy and cute when the ocean obliging fills in their play pool. And with that we will call the whole summer good, and move on to fall - gigs! book tour! other things! which I will then be able to write about in more detail and with greater enthusiasm. Oh yes I will.

Oh, wait. I forgot, there's one more photo. This is an absolutely true, unretouched, personally verified by me actual set of street signs photographed (again, by me personally) in Yachats, Oregon. I just, uh, yeah.

I find I am feeling very wanty today, all full of aquire, you know what I mean? Old quilts off eBay, Angie Reed Garner paintings, luxurious bedlinens, brand new saucepans, the new-new iPhone, and a new laptop while I'm at it since my SALM's new one is so quiet and light and cool and has a battery that lasts five hours - five! I dream of such things. A big cool wooden desk, which I imagine would make finishing my correspondence list a snap, and an icemaking freezer and a new suit, custom-made, and while I'm at the tailor a sportcoat in a wide boater stripe. And an armload of fresh flowers and someone to weed the garden in this heat and a dozen linen shirts in my size; plus a new house, really, with a great kitchen and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in it. And two pairs of new jeans and a good book and a nice big lunch that features noodles and iced tea.

From which I learn two things:

one, my life is so full of blessings that all I have left to feel wanty about is nicer sheets and newer clothes.

and two, it is time for lunch.

I like it better than I thought I would, overall. I doubt I'll keep it like this for very long, but I always wanted to shave it all off. And now I have.

One perk: it's very nice to have my head pet, and also quite good to rub on my SALM. Because my hair is so fine, it's quite soft even at this bristly stage.

::grin::

Also, unrelatedly, OnStar commercials always make me cry. Do they do that on purpose? Jeepers.