Tuesday, January 01, 2002
It's as if this crapulous year had to go out with a last, spectacularly crapulous day, like an exclamation point. 2001! You won't soon forget me,, no sir'ee. Which is to say it was one of those days, the sort where you don't slow down for twelve hours, but it's all silly, annoying twaddle, from start to finish, and not a true word gets written anywhere. Writing would be a far more pleasant enterprise if publishing weren't required to complete the damned, vicious circle.
Fortunately, I have a 7-year-old bottle of apple brandy (left over from Dragon*Con) and another of Mari Mayans absinthe and, moving from one to the other and back again, I should manage to make it to the end of this ridiculous year.
Oh, and The Marx Brothers. They make everything better.
I'd make some sort of futile resolution, at this point, but I've already made more promises than I can keep, and miles to go before I sleep and so on and so forth. Promises are for people too young to know any better, I say.
So are hangovers, which I'm sure I'll be telling myself again in the morning. In fact, getting older rather tends to ruin drinking, simply because time seems to move so much faster. What's the point of getting drunk when the hangover's here before you've hardly begun to notice the buzz? Fortunately, I ignored my own age'd wisdom this evening.
And what, you may be asking, has any of this to do with writing? I knew some inquirious loudmouth would be asking that question. Well, I've no intention of answering it in this state (or any other). Ask Carson McCullers or Dorothy Parker, instead. Ask James Dickey. And stop picking at that thing or it will never heal.
Lord, what a year.
Go to bed, all of you.
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