I wrote down my computer's new password as aih96bc52, when it should have been aih96b52. Heh. Silly cunt. I was computerless for three days before I lighted upon the correct combination.

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We have spent the last two week-ends in Santa Barbara, and I have spent most of the last week working in a place an hour more northern than that. On one Sunday, the Fiend flaunted his art along the waterfront. On the following Saturday, Jer and his favorite girl, Not-Faustina, finally found their swinging bachelorette pad (after looking all summer). And on the weekdays between, I have been a lumberjack and I'm okay.

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Nathan and Julio are in pig heaven. A couple of weeks ago, they were sold at the fair and shortly thereafter, no doubt, they became bacon and chops. I've been so busy lately I haven't taken the time to tell you about the Great Pork Robbery.

I will.

But not today.

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Yesterday, The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold was thrust upon me by a "You must read this!" friend. It looked like an easy read so I read it last night. The book is an unconvincing blend of cute romanticism with that peculiar triumph of female victimhood so often celebrated by Oprah's book club (the former original book club, not the latter current one). The narrator of the book is a dead 14-year-old girl, who was raped and slaughtered by a serial killer, telling her story from her cosy, pie-in-the-sky heaven. The otherworldly aspect is very reminiscent of the movie Ghost, there's even a stalwart and true Patrick Swayze type character, although he's not a ghost, which is only an improvement. The book was more enjoyable than it should have been, but I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. What would I recommend? Well, Life of Pi was pretty damn good. And as an illustration of the benefits of deism, it's making me reconsider atheism as my theology of choice.

Next on the pile is The Dream of Scipio by Iain Pears. Then Feersum Endjinn by Iain Banks, recommended by Molly and Dave. After that, I have my choice of Fearless Jones by Walter Mosley or The City and the Pillar by Gore Vidal. And I still haven't read more than a chapter of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.

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I'm at the top of the page (or near enough) for cowboy cock, hot dick action, your brain on psiloscybin, and the one of the great philosophical questions of the twenty-first century: "Can a straight man wear a thong?"

I'm so proud.