Thursday, August 10, 2006

Holiday. Holiday

Well I’m on holidays for the first time in a long time. It’s not exactly a real holiday, that’s in October – I’m going to New Zealand for a couple of weeks.

This is what folks call a writing holiday - kind of like a fishing holiday, but with stories and whatnot to finish, and not as much fish, it’s one of those middle-class luxuries*. I’ll be writing and such, may be even blogging some sensible blog entries – like something I’ve wanted to write about fiction in the New Yorker in the Fifties and its general shininess - certainly reading, oh, yes, there will be reading, and coffee, `cause I need those caffeine induced heart palpitations.

Tonight, though, I cracked open the Chartreuse**: after a bottle of red, not such a good idea. Tonight doesn’t count as my writing holiday” alcohol and writing doesn’t mix – it might have worked for Dylan Thomas, and, maybe, Fritz Leiber, but it sure as hell doesn’t work for me.

Oh, only 27 days to go until Okkervil River hit the Zoo, and 36 until the Dresden Dolls play the Arena. Bring on September.

Bought the new Crystal Skulls album "Outgoing Behaviour" on the weekend, I'm not warming to it as quickly as their first album "Blocked Numbers" it's, perhaps, a little too smooth, but it's still good, and the title track is a corker***.

*not that bookstore wages are middle-class, you can't really afford a middle-class lifestyle and work in a bookstore. But who earns real money these days anyway, what with wars and rates and petrol and bananas and such?

**and surely that green drink is the nectar of the gods - well, the alcoholic ones anyway.

***listening to it now, and, after the chartreuse, it's all rather good.

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