It's pushing 2 a.m. and I can't sleep, perhaps because I went to bed at 7 last night. That might sound off kilter to most of you, but when you consider I get up at 3:30 a.m for work I'm not really too far from the norm.
I've spent the weekend printing out my zine for OWLHOOT, a western apa of which I am the Ramrod. It's a pretty fine apa if I say so myself, and anyone interested in westerns should ask me for particulars.
Anyway, it takes a long, long time to print out these pages on my printer so I watched the NFL playoffs at the same time. I think this is called multitasking. My wife calls it being a lazy bum. I was surprised to see Minnesota and the Jets win, glad that the Colts spanked the hated Broncos (though not as hated as they were when Elway was QB), and resigned to the fate of the hapless Seattle Seahawks. The Hawks were done in by the two bugaboos that have haunted them all year: dropped passes and a poor pass defense. And what about Jerry Rice? I don't think they threw one pass to him the entire game. What is he, a multimillion-dollar decoy? They could have had me for a lot less.
Next week we'll have another round of playoffs, then another I believe, and the week after we'll see who goes to the Superbowl (hint: it won't be Janet Jackson). I'd like to see New England or Pittsburgh represent the AFC and Minnesota take the NFC crown if only to have a Cinderella 8-8 team in the game.
I'm about two-thirds through SUICIDE SQUEEZE, by Victor Gischler. His style reminds me of a cross between Carl Hiaasen and Tim Dorsey, two other writers who use a Florida setting. He's not as outragous as either of them, but he has a freewheeling way of storytelling that both delights me and fills me with envy. The story itself revolves around a number of people on the trail of a unique Joe DiMaggio baseball card--one signed by not only Joe by Marilyn Monroe and Billy Wilder as well. There is some dipping into the milieu of comics and sci-fi (shudder!) mania that makes me feel right at home. I'm reading the ARC, so keep an eye peeled for this book when it hits the racks.
Happy Birthday to Toby and Tiny, my daughters' Chihuahuas, who turned two on the 3rd. I have to admit that I didn't think I could like yippy little dogs like them, but they're great.
The week between Christmas and New Year's was spent at Frank Denton's cabin near Mt. Rainier for a semiannual gathering known as Tankon. Five of us convened for a near-week of fellowship, male bonding, discussion, argument, backbiting, contempt, rabid disagreement, homicidal thoughts, and food. Lots of food.
The best part of the experience, other than spending time with a group of bright, fannish guys, is the chance to get away from the real world. No TV, no newspapers, no radio, no phones, no families. No Internet, either, and that's a problem for a junkie like me, but I manage. And I read.
A week ago I saw the movie THE AVIATOR, and recommend it highly. Leonardo DiCaprio surprised me with his performance as Howard Hughes, and whoever the actress is who played Kate Hepburn stole the show; she was brilliant.
As for New Year's Eve, I made myself a vodka collins and went to bed by nine. There's no correlation between the two, I was just tired and that's my late bedtime these days anyway. I've never been that big on celebrating New Year's. One year I was a part of the mob in Time's Square. Once or twice I've drunk more than my usual two beers. I've enjoyed the usufructs of gallantry. More often than not I've stayed home and ignored it. It just seems artifical to me. Like Mother's Day being a conspiracy by the card and flower industries, New Year's seems like a plot by the liquor and restaurant people to get us so drunk we forget we spent all our money at Christmas.