Sunday,
August 8, 1999

Oh, well. Last night of vacation. I suppose I can't complain, really -- I have two weeks at work, then I go on vacation for another three weeks (and this three weeks will be spent in California). I didn't get a lot of things done that I wanted to, though. I wanted to get the yard tidied -- it still looks like a heavy metal band stayed in it for a week. The house is slightly better than it was, but it's not great. And of my writing, this journal, a bit of "Hoosier Red" and this shared-universe thing I'm doing on alt.culture.fabulous is all that I've churned out to date. Fun stuff, yes, but none of it paying work.

Then again, it was a nice vacation. We got to go to England for a couple of days, I had two delicious weeks of living on my natural schedule (sleeping late and staying up late), and I definitely feel refreshed. And okay, so I haven't done any paying work, but it hasbeen fun playing with the stuff I did work on, so I can't complain about that. And the boss wants me to become a kick-ass webmistress, so it looks like I'll be getting in on Perl and CGI classes come the fall, so that's cool.

Now if I could only finish this damned novel. . .

I do love my husband. I especially love the way our minds mesh so well at 3:00 in the morning.

I can't go to sleep, and I'm hungry, so I decide to get a fast sandwich before trying the sleep thing again (yeah, yeah, I know it's not healthy, but as of tomorrow I start walking back and forth to the bus stop, so that's exercise). As my wont, I usually leave books lying around the house for me to read -- the one currently on the kitchen table is P.J. O'Rourke's AGE AND GUILE BEAT YOUTH, INNOCENCE AND A BAD HAIRCUT. So while I munched on my sandwich, I read one of his articles about book tours. In said article, he recommends that the best time to go on a book tour is right after Hunter S. Thompson has finished his book tour, because people who have experienced Thompson first-hand will treat you with mondo respect (as well as give you a very wide berth), as you are both authors and they are afraid that you might pull out an elk gun and run amok with a fifth of Glenfiddich and a Chilean midget, much as Thompson had.

Now, I love Doc Thompson's work. He is a full-fledged maniac, of course, and I would have to think twice about meeting him in person (on one hand, he's a terrific writer and I'd love to talk to him. On the other hand, he might pour Glenfiddich all over me and invite me to perform obscene acts with the Chilean midget. You just never know with Dr. Hunter S. Thompson), but his books are marvels of slashing wit and no-holds-barred viewpoints on Western civ as we know it. And as I do appreciate the good doctor, I was cackling aloud at this passage in Mr. O'Rourke's book.

So Lyndon wanders in, attracted by the sound of my giggling, and asks me what's funny. I read the passage to him, and he bursts into appreciative chortles. I then mention my two-mindedness about Thompson. "Does he like science fiction?" Lyndon wonders. I say, well, I don't remember reading a diatribe about it, so he may like it, I don't know. "So is there any chance you might run into him at a Worldcon?"

At this point, I picture the prince of Gonzo journalism making his way through a crowded hotel lobby on the first day of Worldcon. "Where did all these freaks come from? My God, that woman -- she's huge! She must eat Canadian orphans for breakfast. Dammit, I thought this mescaline was supposed to be good stuff -- I'll pistolwhip that Samoan bastard for this." And as we've both seen the cinematic version of FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS, Lyndon immediately riffs, "As your lawyer, I advise you to wear a Darth Vader costume. And bring a real lightsabre, the double-headed kind." We both picture the Dark Lord of the Sith with a cigarette holder jutting jauntily from his mask, howling abuse at the cowed Masquerade judges, and dissolve into merriment.

It's good to be married.