Oh, this is the best day I've had in many a moon, or a sun, either. It was 80 degrees in LA where I am this morning, with New York under its 26 inches of snow, and while hunting quail, Dick Cheney shot his friend in the neck and himself in the foot, metaphorically. Oh, rarely have I danced with myself to such a waltzy degree. My accountant/adorablefriend Lisa said her husband noted "Maybe if he'd served in Vietnam his aim would have been better." I can hardly wait for Jon Stewart and the Daily Show this evening. Wind in the sails of Leno and Letterman. What a glorious day for humanity, and so much for God being a Right Wing Christian. The real scandal is that the story was not released by the White House(did Bush even know? has he heard by now?) to the press corps,but by the owner of the ranch where the accident occured, to the Corpus Christie Caller-Times. Huh?
We must remember that our e-mails are being monitored so if my body is found, do insist on an investigation.
I am on p. 70 something of my new novel,and looking forward to moving into my apartment March 1st. If any of you are in town March 17th,I am having a housewarming at 11645 Montana Ave. LA 90049, and you are welcome, even encouraged to fly here from all the corners of the earth,and a few circles, too,wherever you are. It is also the anniversary of my first date with Don, who was to become my husband. I'd met him but didn't remember, when my stepfather said I'd better go out on a date, that I was turning into his Aunt Jenny. I was deeply discouraged about my young writing career at the time. My second novel's printing had been halted by a threatened lawsuit from Ken Kesey, who'd been a friend and would-have been lover at Stanford, whom I laughed at afterwards if not during("You are about to publish this novel," Ken wrote to Doubleday. "If you do,you will have a liable(sic) suit, in fact several liable suits. We are the wife-swappers. It will jeepardize(sic) our position in the community, be disasterouse(sic) to all of us, my wife is seven months pregnate(sic.) and I am a graduate student in English at Stanford University." No sic. I still have the letter. Doubleday cancelled my book, and then published it, reluctantly, after it was thoroughly bowdlerized. I was in a depression, giving up being a writer, working for my stepfather as a would-be broker on Wall Street, when he told me I better go out. So I called some producers'office and Don answered the phone and invited me to dinner. I'd had a cold at our first meeting. The very depressed are different from you and me: they have more colds. My nose was running, and Don had passed me a Kleenex. When he showed up for our date, not remembering anything about him, I was stunned at how big and handsome he was, which I hadn't noticed because he was so kind, and kind wasn't it for me-- I liked guys who made me feel bad about myself. He brought to that first date a bottle of 1000 aspirin, a Benedrex inhaler, Vicks Vapo Rub, a big box of Kleenex and a green carnation. That's how I knew it was St. Patrick's Day. What a guy.
I have called on his smart and merry spirit to help me with this novel, as it was his encouragement and guidance and insistence that I get in there and write one for the healthy heterosexual (he was reading Portnoy and Myra Breckenridge at the time) that gave me my biggest hit. I also call on all of you, as the Quakers say in Meeting, to hold me in the Light. And a little Fantastic wouldn't hurt.
Love and Kisses. Be my Valentines.
