Oh that I too lived on the razor edge of time!

So, it's been a long time, I have no apologies to make. Only .05% percent of the possible monkeys are bothering to read me anyhow.

So, what have I been doing, you ask? Or perhaps you don't ask but merely look at me balefully and smirk. But I ignore such rudeness and tell you have I have been maddeningly non-busy. Stupefyingly slothful. Lasciviously leisurely, er, strike out that last one. In other words, I'm reaping the fruits of my colleagues, hm, strike out that one too, and experiencing a week where most of the work has been done before hand and, as a temp for only a week, long term projects are sort of untenable and I'm still spending 9 hours a work. But, as usual, I complain unnecessarily. I'm happy to be working and I've gotten to do fun things like play with audio and know that it will actually make it on the air with my greasy thumbprint thuramagicaly transmitted from the mouse as a meticulous impulse to the audio represented in the third degree as little waves of varying frequencies and amplitudes. Damn, it sucks to think too much sometimes.

There are other good things. I'm rooming with one of the other 10 people on this earth who owns the Labyrinth soundtrack and we both share a propensity for absurd foreign movie and complex ambient indi music. Who'd have guessed?

I'm also reading an damn good Sci-Fi novel by the feminist, sort of post-modernist author, Joanna Russ. At least that's my description from the one other novel I've read by her. The cover is almost a parody of itself and, from the choice of subject matter, the illustrator didn't read beyond the first 20 pages. A woman clad in a pink (of course) short (likewise) dress that is riding sexily up her thighs is plunging a large harpoon into something like a cross between a codfish and a bar of Irish Spring soap. It's caption "The Adventures of Alyx: The swashbuckling saga of Alyx--woman warrior on the razor edge of time!" shout, "I was short of cash and I had to whore out my writing talents." But this is merely the publisher's attempt to conceal its remarkably palatable innards--chewy, with hints of coffee grounds, blood and a musty finish.

Oh, and there are sparkly pillows on my bed, even though the comforter currently resides in some suburban UPS retreat, taking the waters no doubt. Hmmm.