08.01.05

A quiet day, yesterday. I re-laid out a friend's chapbook--and it looks more sexy than a chocolate eclair. Okay, maybe that's just me.

Sunday evenings are reserved for hanging with my disreputable poet-friends. Last night was no exception. MC-CC greeted me at the bottom of the steps last evening wearing a kilt, combat boots, and a black t-shirt. Oh boy! A kilt! He got one helluva hug, and was so enthusiastic a hug-ee that he lifted me off my feet. *grin*

Talked to my fellow lit-geeks. Listened to a lot of poetry--which ranged from amazing to awful--and laughed a lot.

Treluv and Binkie showed up. Treluv gave me my pay from our last gig--$8.00! We've got another gig coming up on the 10th at the Acme (SE 8th and Main) for the Lingua Franca show. Musicians and poets are going to tear up the stage. (If you're here, be there.)

I was finally driven from the bar by a spate of 80s tunes. The straw that pierced my tolerance was Rosanna. Ugh! Didn't like it then, and I don't like it now. As I was leaving, I saw MC-CC walking down the hall from the bathroom. I lifted my arms for a goodbye hug, and was lifted and swung around with great glee. I asked if that was his sporran, or was he just happy to see me? He asked if I wanted to finger his bone--the tip of a stag antler that acts as a closure on the sporran. I enthusiastically gave it a good rub. This inspired another friend, let's call him Cognomen, to remark on the habit of certain dashing Victorian gentlemen who would hang a raccoon penile bone on their fobs as a titillating (and rakish) accessory.

Got back to the house and dove into Iain Banks' The Wasp Factory. Morpheus soon carried me off, and I slept the sleep of angels. For 47 minutes. ARGH! Could not get back to sleep until 05:25, then KaliHellKitty decided that food time was 07:10. I am lucky. I am an ace with the water spray bottle and soaked her. Then I settled back into my remaining 50 minutes before my alarum went off.

Great. I had 4,000 pieces to collate today. The worst bit was that I had to remove the first page, which had been given to us with a typo, replace it with the corrected version, then put the whole shebang into a folded cover.

All on three-ish hours of sleep.

I managed not to drool on the papers, but it was a close thing. When the head sales droid came in, all hearty and chipper and saying, "Isn't this great?" I replied that it was better than a mouthful of fishhooks. But not by much.

*sigh*

Now I get to do some more work on a chapbook.

Whee.

I wanna go to sleep. But I promised to get this done, and I do my damndest to uphold my promises. Like Ms. Witty, I am distressed at the lack of ethical backbone among the populace. How do I fight it? By not succubing to the siren song of "who gives a fuck." Can't control anyone else, but I do have control over my own actions.

Goodness, that got awfully serious.

Euw!

Time to put on some Bollywood movie music and get to bit-diddlin'.

Go. Be fabulous.

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