Last Days of Pompeii

All yesterday, Honolulu lay swathed in a deep pink-golden haze, much like the twilight or dawn of the gods.

In other words, Mount Kilauea is erupting on the Big Island, and we have Vog.

Vog smells nice to me, like warm dirt. It's as pleasant as walking around in a clay pot factory. Last night, when I got home, I tried to figure out which position I would like to be immortalized in if I ever find myself buried in ash. Wearing a bikini and hunched over a laptop is obvious. Trotting in profile beside the wall, like a Greek frieze, would be good, too. Knees together, hands to cheeks, face resembling Munch's The Scream-- Not.

When they dig out Honolulu, the mud around all the girls doing hula can be used to cast statues for centuries to come.

Chronicles

I'm reading Chronicles by Bob Dylan. I think it's very cool and don't quite understand the offhand reviews.

One quote The Mighty Quinn hauls back to civilization from the deep freeze of the great floating polar ice floes:

J.P. Morgan: America is good enough for me.
Senator: Well, when you get tired of it, please give it back.

Other mentionable turns of phrase:

"Truth was the last thing on my mind, and even if there was such a thing, I didn't want it in my house."

"My haystacks weren't tied down and I was beginning to fear the wind."