Last night I faced the question: what happens when Peter comes home from work, discovers he’s sold a story, and pours an overly generous snifter of porter as part of his celebration? The answer seems to involve dancing to Justin Timblerlake’s I’m Bringing Sexy back in a manner that makes it extraordinarily clear that there is no sexy being brought anywhere in my general vicinity. Through a series of events – relatively sober events, since I stopped drinking after the first class – this led me back some some of the truly tragic dance music of my younger days.
Apparently I will still bust a very limp and wheezy move if someone puts on , say, East 17’s House of Love. And I’m still far fonder of the Utah Saints Something Good than is reasonable.
‘Course, this all ended up going nuts to Atari Teenage Riot, so I try not to feel too bad about indulging in a few moments naffness.
I also found a copy of Horn and Bleed in an envelop on my desk this morning, packaged together and ready to send off into the world. The envelope was even stamped, which is rare for me and envelopes.
From the looks of things they’d been sitting there for a while, several months at least, and I find myself utterly unable to remember where I was going to send them. It’s the kind of thing that’s likely to bug me for days, largely because I was meant to be sending a bunch of these books out right about the point my dad got sick last year, and I’ll be haunted by the feeling that I’ve managed to forgot someone.
My notes, such as they are, are no help at all. *They* say everyone I was planning on sending books too had their books sent.
And so I have mystery books. They’ve been relocated to the shelf for the moment, waiting for me to figure out their eventual fate.
Still no third thing, except possibly mentioning that the new dayjob goes well.
See you all tomorrow.