Supermodel Kimche Craze
Dipping my toe into the savage current events pool is about all I can muster these days, what with the book (The Book, THE BOOK!!!) taking up most of my waking, pre-sleep, REM cycle, drool-on-the-pillow time. I'm only posting this to quash the rumor that I was attacked by crazed snow owls, their beautiful white plumage stained by my toxic blood, and that I'm slowly recovering in a refurbished lighthouse near Michigan's Upper Peninsula, the scent and sounds of Lake Huron my sole, soothing comfort.
Well, none of it's true. A pregnant squirrel did jump on the hood my car as I warmed it up, our eyes locking for a few frozen seconds before the frizzy rat bolted for a nearby tree. But that's been about it.
Most of my writing takes place in the dark, usually around 4 AM or so, and goes on through the early afternoon until my concentration breaks, and I'm reduced to watching bits of "You, Me And Dupree," which is always on HBO, at least when I tune in, as I try to understand Kate Hudson's allure as a comic actress while polishing my rough, but recognizable, Owen Wilson impression. Then it's back to editing and laying out my work for the next early morning session.
There's so much to comment on and take apart, but I must shove any creative energy I possess into the book. Once this thing's put to bed, and after an organic carrot and watercress colonic, I'll be back in bloggy mode, tapping and linking like mad. You won't be rid of me. You'll beg me to stop. "No, dear God no, Perrin! Not another 2,000 word rant about Musharraf's secret deals with Mossad which are brutally carried out by a rogue wing of Blackwater financed by Bechtel with ties to Hillary Clinton's silent backers! And 'Fridays'! Please don't write again about 'Fridays'! I can't fucking stand it!!"
But you can. And you will.
Until that glorious day, I'm gonna be away from the site more often than not. This final phase is critical; if I'm absent for a week, you'll know why. I do appreciate hearing from you privately, so feel free to mail me and say hi. I'll probably respond, unless the snow owls have pecked out my eyes and are feeding them to their young, a pregnant squirrel chorus singing its approval.