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Random musings on a writer's life & times, with occasional input from acquaintances

 

Friday, December 01, 2006

 
I have a cold. What a drag. My wife also has a cold. And so does my eldest son. We are the draggiest.

Today is Woody Allen's 71st birthday. He is one my great heroes. He once said: "My one regret in life is that I am not someone else." Me, too. In fact, I might wish I was Woody Allen, except I can't stand whinette Mia Farrow and I think Soon-Yi is ugly as a mud fence. He shoulda hung on to Diane Keaton.

I think I have finished my Christmas shopping, but now I am receiving mystery emails from internet retailers telling me delivery of gifts I purchased will be delayed because of heavy buyer demand. I received two such emails, neither of which identified the product(s). What, I'm supposed to guess? I could call the retailers, as the emails suggested, but then I'd bog down trying to penetrate their telephone defenses. Sigh.

I had a poem published this week in the new issue of Rattle magazine, a slick rag out of Los Angeles. Everyone should buy a copy and read it. This means you.





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