Sitting on the back patio again, nursing a beer, reading rock criticism, and listening to Augie March. It’s been a wearing mid-January, but I persevere. I find myself tired, irritable, impatient, and not quite myself. Aren’t you glad you’re far away?
I can’t even say I’m reading. Started a few thins, but they all lie abandoned, and year’s best reading is anathema of the deepest sort. Maybe I am, at last, all gatekeepered out? Who knows. April will tell.
Till then, though, Robert Forster’s wit and thought make me wonder again, as I often do, at the sheer plod that is science fiction book reviewing. sigh.