more anon

Well, it's Poet's Day (Piss Off Early Tomorrow's Saturday, for non-Brit kids). And Monday's a holiday. Celebrations are in order. Think I'll start by hitting the Indian Market after work and stocking up on Pakistani pineapple jam. I have not tried it, but the rose petal spread is thick as a bastard-- the consistency of date paste and sweet as your granny's kiss. Then homeward and into the arms of an organic fried egg sandwich. Followed by a lavish revel in Jim Carroll's Downtown Diaries, an orgy of sticky-taping more torn-out photos into those neverending scrapbooks, and finally--yes--the invocation of the otherworldly voices-- a.k.a. working on my latest novel while drinking cabernet sauvignon. My love life is diaphanous but a humdinger.

(The author raises index finger to sky. "Hey! Humdinger-- a Hummer that got dinged!")

Tomorrow I will take Demure Bikini to the beach. I have three bikinis in my quiver-- Killer Bikini (magenta paisley with golden-brown leopard pattern), Sportif Bikini (white/lime/mauve/orange Scandinavian Modern), and Demure Bikini (sky blue, scarlet-lined, with white and yellow plumeria and red hibiscus). They all need exercise occasionally, or they get lonely. Probably I'll go to Fort DeRussy Beach-- The tourists' facial expressions are better. (Yah, I hear Mike Skinner's exasperated voice: "You girls think if you just flirt it comes to you!") Lying face up in the hot sun, drying off from the swim, pale blue sun hat tilted over face at an extreme angle, I'll enter the mental War Room to map out the rest of the weekend's campaign.