Some pluses about my job:

We got in feather boas today. Yes.

In how many other professions can you say, "darling, I need you to hook for me," and not offend someone? Other than the obvious, of course.

And what I /mean/ by 'hook' is put the little metal wire bits through the loops of the ornaments so that they can go on trees. Why? What did you think I meant?

Anyway. The fox and I are teetering back and forth about taking a madcap trip to New York City on way too little money while we've still got the car. We'll leave in the next few hours or so, if we do. Whee!

For the month of bohemian exhibitionist angst, it seems I am not to write the story. Or stories. It will be Felice Xavier's work. I am just the translator.

A collection of short stories/novellas called 'i'm looking through you where did you go?' (working title). They're all very edgy, toothsome tales, from the same dark hole that brought you Asphodel 10, DUST unzine, 'Not a Nice Person' and other black marks in my history. Felice is the castrating lesbian junior hothead-Paisan-femme that I can't keep up for more than a few minutes without Stephen laughing at me.

She's like Earnest Hemingway in the body of a fourteen year old crack child. Cigarettes, booze, and skirts. Lipstick razorblades, death and homelessness. I'm waxing melodramatic, but this girl rattles at me like the embodiment of an Alan Ginesberg poem. Just less mysogynistic.

but who else would toss me ideas like, well, Remus, or one of the new ones-- Petey-Jack the Redneck Pirate?

And why can't I make a fiction post come out of my head and onto this goddamn screen?

<<agé chose>>

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