Q: It's winter, and we haven't spoken since the very end of summer. And what do I have to say for myself?
A: I'm cold, and grumpy, and feeling my advancing age. It seems like too much trouble to walk amongst those crystals of ice and salt, and my winter coat is heavy & buttonless, and my apartment warm and stocked with pasta. This torpor, it goes without saying, extends to my fingers & mind, if not to my heart. On the other hand, my fingers at least have been very nimble indeed at playing "Pirates," which I got from a mini-cousin at Christmas, and "The Sims 2," with which I have been spelling out my early life.
Q: What did I do between early September & the onset of winter?
A: Accepted, on probation (at least in my own mind!) the books-&-fiction editorship of Cannabis Blonde; naturally we spent a lot of time at the beginning in marketing meetings, making prototypes, etc. Inaugural issue out in time for Valentine's Day, with recipes for chocolate-zucchini-marijuana cake and hash-infused champagne. And some pretty good fiction about pot and sex by a friend of a friend of the IR's. But in a limited market, and through limited vendors, of course. Try your local "Rubber Match" futon store? Also, it's weird working with mostly potheads. Not as pleasant and lazy as I would have thought! since they're all used to smoking pot all the time & therefore pretty lucid. I've only smoked pot, like, once since I started. I don't know why they wanted me to do this. But it does mean coming into the fucking office every day, which is dumb, & contributes to torpor.
Otherwise the autumn was a pleasant season of mists & mellow fruitfulness. Visiting relatives; pumpkin-carving; flame- and honey-colored walks in the park; gentle parties with mojitos on the porch; some dull freelancing. Christmas was nice. The MB came to visit for New Year's & the week after.
Q: This was less of a catechism than an interview, wasn't it?
A: You are right, o blessed interlocutor.