Far too few hours from now, I'll be hauling my ass outta bed for another trip to the airport, this time bound for N'awlins, where many crawfish and oysters will be surprised to have gone to their reward in Shellfish Heaven for the sake of feeding me. Sick and morbid as it is, the thought of that makes me strangely happy.
Much writing was not done this week, save for the first third or so of this month's column, so Spyder's going to just have to do the IM equivalent of looking at her watch and tapping her foot a bit longer. These things happen; it seems I'm the literary equivalent of a brewer and not a stir-fry chef, and some stuff I thought was done fermenting wasn't. Will rectify as time allows. And perhaps a couple of evenings in the French Quarter will do wonders for inspiration as well.
That's about it. Hopefully I'll post some more in a few days; meanwhile, I got a vacation to go to. Zai jian.