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From Oregon

Volume 4: Summer 1999

Here I am in Corvallis, Oregon.

To answer the big question: no, I still am not working. I've spent the last year doing long-postponed projects and clearing out my queue of books to read. Don't worry, I'll find employ soon.

In the meantime, here's more minutiae from my life.

Visitor Season

Or, Welcome to River City!

Who hasn't visited this year? So far there've been two different waves of people passing through. Wave 1 brought Drum, Beth & Eric, Dan & Matthew (those snickering lemmings), and Goat. Floating through on the second wave have been Paul Schwartz (a.k.a. The Other Paul), Lang Havey, and Bob Arco. Upcoming are visits from Gwyddon, Cary, and possibly Wulf and Bill & Larry. Have I missed anyone?

There were lots of enjoyable moments: particular highlights were gaming with Beth & Eric, watching Dan & Matthew ooh and ahh in the gourmet store, and catching up with Bob. Darn! I knew I should have gone to my 10th high school reunion arm in arm with Goat. According to Bob, we would have surprised quite a few people. I guess I have changed since high school.

Out of all the visitors so far, the best comment has come from Beth.

"I think that you have a toilet in your relationship area."

- Beth Zuckerman, 8:35 PM, 13 Feb 1999,
analyzing my apartment in terms of feng shui.

Some folks have stopped by while passing through the neighborhood, whereas for others this was the destination. No matter; I've enjoyed entertaining all of them. I'm not sure how many times this year I've given the walking tour of Corvallis. The best tour had to be the one for Lang. As we walked downtown to dinner, I described the town as white bread -- in Frank Zappa's pithy phrase, "A nice place to raise your kids up" -- like River City in The Music Man. As Lang & I passed Central Park, people were arriving at the gazebo. When I told him they were members of the Community Band setting up for that evening's free concert, the look on his face was priceless.

But it did make me realize that I really do live in River City!

So come one, come all! Come to River City and enjoy our fine gazebo! Set a spell and listen to the town band.

Downwardly Mobile

For some reason, one spring day I decided not to ride my bicycle downtown. Instead I threw on my brother's army jacket and walked my usual route: first the post office, then to the supermarket to get lunch. Nothing unusual.

Yet something odd did happen that day. I walked up to Safeway's deli counter and couldn't decide what I wanted. I could get the sliced ham, or go over to the seafood counter for some fake crab meat. I would have preferred the ham, but there was a long line at the deli. I was perfectly balanced between the two possibilities, and unable to choose.

While I was trying to make up my mind, someone approached me. It was a guy I'd seen a few times around town, and figured for homeless: big blond beard, long hair, 50 or so, kind of scruffy. He came over and said that he'd just gotten his food stamps for the month; was I hungry?

I was startled. I quickly reassured him that I wasn't, then thanked him for his offer. He went off in search of groceries. My head was in a bit of a spin. Why had he approached me of all people?

After a bit of pondering, it started to make a little sense. There I was in jeans, old hiking shoes, an army jacket, staring absently down at the sliced deli meats. I have a long beard and hair, which hadn't been brushed since I'd showered the day before. Perhaps he mistook me for someone who was homeless. I'm sure other people who didn't know me might have.

I left the store with a lot to think about.

For one, there was that kind of pique you get when someone makes a wrong assumption about your identity. I amusingly interpreted his mistake as meaning that I was becoming a bit more downwardly mobile. On the other hand, it hit me, how many people see my long hair & beard, army jacket, and old shoes -- and then don't bother to look any further?

The second line of thought was more heartening. Say what you want about folks who are down on their luck (if he is), but he really embodied the charitable ideal. He didn't have much to share, but he was willing to share it with someone else in need. We could learn a lot from that.

An Anniversary

A bit more than a decade ago I changed my life.

Yes, it was in the spring of 1989 that I first started to come out. After twenty-two years, I was finally ready. Out I came.

So now it's a decade later. I've been in good situations, bad ones, and embarrassing ones. I've been in and out of love. A lot of people have come into my life, and a few have left. What have I learned?

Several things, actually.

Floss regularly.
Love means you'll rescue your boyfriend who's pissed at you.
Before you move, have a job lined up.
You can love the right person at the wrong time.
Love does not equal sex.
Friendship is important.
Love yourself first.
Have courage.
Compression reduces the volume and changes the energy needed to overcome the loss due to radiation. (Wait a minute. That's not love, that's the physics of thermonuclear fuels.)
A pillow can sometimes be better than a boyfriend.
Take a chance occasionally.
Date within your town.
Don't be jealous.
If it's love, you'll know.
Breaking up hurts, but you get over it.
When you're angry, count to ten. Often.
Talk.
You can get love back.
Absolutes don't apply to everyone.

I can't say whether I'm any wiser than I was back then, but I feel pretty good these days.

Blowout

Why aren't manuals more helpful?

Take the manual for Mirro pressure cookers. In the "Cooker Problems" section, it says not to reuse a blown overpressure plug. This advice is in boldface, and is repeated elsewhere in the manual. Yet they don't give any reasons why you shouldn't reuse a blown plug.

I now know the reason.

Thar She Blows!

The story started normally. It was a Monday night and I was making a stew. That's what I do: make beef stew about once a week. It tastes good, is inexpensive, easy and quick to make, and provides two nights of good leftovers. It's almost an ideal from-scratch food. Hence I eat it often.

The thing that makes it so quick is the pressure cooker. From start to finish it takes an hour to make, and by the end of the hour I've got most of the cleanup done as well. While the stew is cooking I wash the cutting board and everything else.

The price of this convenience is that when things go wrong, they can really go wrong.

The problem is the steam. If it's released accidentally, it makes a big mess. This has happened two or three times when I accidentally knocked the pressure control off while moving the cooker to the sink. The steam shoots up to the ceiling, carrying spices and beef broth with it. It leaves a brown, wet spot on the ceiling. At least the stew's already cooked; there just isn't any broth to go with it.

That Monday night, though, something new happened. As the meat cooked, the overpressure plug blew off. Beef broth and tarragon ended up all over the stove hood, ceiling, the kite bag (stored on top of the cabinets above the stove), the pile of important papers that needed filing, and the open silverware drawer. The ceiling was a brown mess covered in dark specks of tarragon. The overpressure plug was nowhere to be seen.

After cleaning up the mess, I started searching for the plug. It could have been in the large pile of things to be recycled, or in the pile of important papers, or in the garbage bags, or behind the stove. I really hoped it wasn't the latter. The meat was mostly cooked, the vegetables mostly chopped, and I wanted to make stew that night.

The plug turned up quickly, on the floor by the door. I washed it off and tried again to cook the meat.

Wait, you're thinking. The manual said Never reuse a blown overpressure plug. Boldface and everything. That might not be a good idea...

You're right! Give the reader a prize. Within a minute of getting up to full pressure, the plug blew again. I got to clean the cabinets, stove and ceiling a second time that night.

By this point I was cursing. All the other dishes needed washing, and I really didn't want to cook anything else. I stuck the vegetables in a bowl and put them, along with the meat, in the refrigerator. I walked over to a neighbor's house, hoping to borrow a pressure cooker if she had one. She wasn't in.

I returned home, got out a bowl and a box of cereal, only to find I was out of milk.

At this point it was about 10:15 PM. By the time I'd returned from the store and finished the dinner of cereal, it was 10:40 PM. Then I had the joyous task of mopping the floor ahead of me.

Plug Hunt

Tuesday's quest was for a replacement plug. I needed to make the stew that day. I didn't have much hope for finding a replacement plug, but had to try.

The first place on the itinerary was the gourmet cooking store. As I expected, they didn't carry that line of cookware. The clerk did give me the address of an online cookware parts store. I returned home to try some Web investigation.

The parts store didn't carry that line of cookware.

The Mirro Web site was completely useless.

The manual -- that very fine manual -- had an mailing address for Mirro, but not a phone number. Wisconsin information gave me the company's phone number, and on the second try I got through to a human being. He suggested trying someplace I never would have thought of: two hardware chains.

So I got on my bike again and rode north along the commercial strip. The first place didn't have anything at all. At the second was pay dirt: there it was, a simple little rubber plug, for less than it cost on the Web. I bought two.

That night I had stew, and it was good. It only took about twenty-two hours to make, which broke my record for longest meal preparation.

The moral of this story: read the manual.

The practical lesson: when you give a blanket edict, it's important to explain the reasons for it.

It would have saved me from cleaning my ceiling a second time.

Passing the Time

So what have I been doing this year? you ask. A bit of this and that. I've been out to the coast, flying kites and observing the broken-off bow of the ill-fated New Carissa; writing lots of Web pages; and let's not forget traveling to Crater Lake.

Yes, I finally made it down to Crater Lake. My parents visited it when they traveled through the Northwest two years ago, but I was working then and couldn't join them. I've wanted to see it for a long time.

One fine day -- Memorial Day weekend? -- my friend Torsten stopped by and asked if I wanted to go down to Crater Lake. Of course! So we packed some things, got some food, and headed south.

We spent the evening camping a short drive from the lake. Unfortunately I don't have a sleeping bag or pad, so I ended up on the ground. It was a bit lumpy, but I managed to get a fair amount of sleep. Next time, I'll borrow these things.

In the morning we drove to the lake. The north entrance was really closed. The snow still hadn't melted, and the road was plowed only so far. At the north entrance it was plowed for about fifty feet, and then was just a long white path leading to the summit road. On a snowmobile it might have been possible, but not in Torsten's Saturn.

The other entrance was clear, and we got to the summit just before the café opened. After a hearty breakfast we spent some time walking around on the fifteen foot snow drifts, then went to look at the lake. What an interesting sight. I wish I'd brought my copy of Fire Mountains of the West with me. It would have increased my appreciation of that singular place.

On the way home we stopped in Bend to get New York-style pizza. I'm not used to it being served on anything other than a paper plate, but they served it on dishes.

We got caught in a traffic jam going over the Cascades, and crawled along for miles. We made it home before too long.

I wonder what the next adventure's going to be.

1999 Dream Series

I'd love to share some important, thematic dreams with you, but I haven't had any. This year's dreams haven't fallen into an identifiable series. I have been keeping a notepad next to my futon and writing down some interesting dreams just after they've happened, but they've been pretty haphazard.

I will note that the toilets on the Death Star III are the absolute worst I've ever seen. Can't the Empire do anything right?[1]

Residents Redux

(A Story of Fame)

Hey folks, I'm famous! Not in the way most people want to be famous, I'll grant you, but recognized nonetheless.

I discovered this fact in April, at a Residents concert in Portland. Yes, they've taken last Halloween's Wormwood show on tour. Even though I'd been to one show, I really wanted to see it again -- and this time, I wanted to actually see it, not stand behind tall people.

As usual, no one else was interested in going. I didn't let it stop me. On the appointed day I drove up to Portland and visited friends David & Jeff, who were sterling. They offered to let me stay overnight. This proved ideal, since their house was within walking distance of the club.

After a pleasant dinner, I tooled down to the club in hopes of being one of the earlier arrivals. I wasn't; there were already several dozen people waiting on line for entrance. Right at the front were Kimba (Residents collector de luxe, and unofficial archivist) and one or two other fans I knew. Before I knew it, we were swept inside.

It was still an hour until curtain, but I wasn't going to waste it. I parked myself front and center, and stayed there the whole evening. This task was made much more pleasant by a woman named Erin and her friend Tony. Erin introduced herself in a way I've never experienced before: she walked up to me and asked "You're Half, aren't you? I've read your Web pages.". Yow! I was recognized by someone I'd never met before! "I'm famous", I wryly thought, amused at the conceit. We ended up spending the whole time talking and hanging out. She can wear a hat well. And who could forget Tony's cute little skull hand puppet? The man is demented, but in a good way.

The show itself was a lot of fun. Since the Residents were touring, they didn't bring along the gamelan ensemble that graced last year's concert. Instead they reworked some songs and introduced a few new ones. The new songs about David were pretty, um, revealing. With the exception of some unintelligible portions, the concert went really well. It was a good time, and the crowd seemed to enjoy it.

The show closed with a rousing cover of "Give Me That Old Time Religion":

It was good for making millions
Selling platitudes to pilgrims
Who were barbecuing children
So it's good enough for me!

Amen!

(Now how do I say that in Tagalog?)

Health Update

Like the smell of new-cut hay
On a sweltering summer day
Sugar melts and goes away
But vinegar lasts forever

"Vinegar" - The Residents

My health is fine; thank you for asking. I'm still on oral medication for diabetes, and hope to continue so indefinitely. The CF is as stable as its always been for years.

Actually, I do have two health-related stories to tell. They're both about recent hospitalizations. One was mine, the other a friend's.

The Joys of Demerol

Gee, do I really have to tell this again? Okay, here goes...

About 11 PM on one Wednesday night in March, my gut started hurting. It wasn't serious enough to call a doctor, but it was bad enough to keep me up most of the night.

Thursday it didn't get any better, and Lars took me to the hospital's immediate care clinic. They tried acetaminophen and an antacid, but neither worked. Eventually they gave me a shot of Demerol and sent me over to get an ultrasound. That didn't reveal anything either. By that point the Demerol had kicked in and I wasn't really coherent. They sent me home, and I slept until mid-Friday.

The pain continued, along with constipation. I never get constipated. (It's something of a joke between Goat and me.) But I wasn't eating due to the pain, and nothing was coming out the other end. And my gut still hurt, though not as badly.

I managed, though I kept trying things. Assuming it was constipation or gas, I went through the major kinds of drugs: laxatives, gas-cutters, etc. Nothing did much, except the gas-cutter moved the pain from the left side to the right. (I never did figure out why.)

Sunday came. Lo and behold, by mid-morning the constipation was over and the pain was gone. I went out gaming with friends. We spent the afternoon in a four-person session, playing Settlers of Catan, Robo Rally, and other fun games.

About 6 PM, though, the pain started coming back. I got a ride home, stopping along the way to get some Pepto-Bismol. It didn't help. By 7:30 it was bad enough that Lars took me to the hospital again. They went through the emergency room routine again, took X-rays, did a CAT scan, and finally admitted me around midnight. They gave me another shot of Demerol and started a saline IV. Later they had to do more CAT scans (though the technician wouldn't show them to me). Eventually I slept.

They put me on the second floor, in a double room. My roommate was Mike, another longhaired bearded guy. He'd was recovering from bowel surgery. We talked and got to know each other a bit. He's a conservationist; he runs a business that preserves plants and seeds from coastal marshes. Interesting guy.

Monday morning arrived with some pain, but not too much. My regular doctor did rounds, and told me they weren't sure what was up. Possible causes were diverticulitis and pancreatic inflammation. I was really hoping it wasn't the latter, since that could mean my diabetes was getting worse. My blood tests showed an elevated white count and normal blood sugar, though, so it looked more like infection. They started me on IV ampicillin and changed my diet to full fluids: soup, juice, milk, eggnog, pudding, and booster. They didn't seem to understand the CF requirement that "more is better", and by midnight I had to go and beg for more.

During the day Lars stopped by with a portable CD player and mail from a friend. It was odd to read her response to a story about previous hospitalizations when I was back in the hospital again! Lars also brought a little teddy bear he'd received the last time he'd been in the hospital. He's become the designated sick bear.

The room had a TV. How strange. I let Mike do almost all the surfing, only asking to watch the last half hour of Desk Set. Mike got his pain meds every six hours and would drift off afterwards, and he liked to watch TV as a distraction as the pain med kicked in. So I got to see some of "Forever Knight" and two Jerry Lewis films. Each bed had its own speaker, and I kept the volume turned down. The Jerry Lewis movies were just appalling; how could the French (or anyone, for that matter) ever think he was funny? The vampire show looked really bland, with that MOR imagery that unimaginative series have. All in all, it didn't make me want to get a television. Now, if there had been a VCR and a stack of B5 tapes, that would have been a lot more interesting.

Monday night was pretty long. I wasn't in pain, so no Demerol. The uncomfortable bed, a hep well in my arm, a 5 AM minibag, and a visit from a phlebotomist conspired to keep me awake a good portion of the night.

By Tuesday morning I was really ready to get out of there. I wanted solid food. I wasn't in pain. I was still constipated, but then again I hadn't eaten anything solid. When the doctor did his rounds, I said I wanted out and he agreed. Yea! Then they fed me fluids.

My friend Randi had said she'd come by to visit around 10 AM, so I figured I could cadge a ride home from her. Around 9 I went down to Admin and did the discharge dance, which only took a few minutes. Then I went back upstairs to wait.

At about 11:15 I couldn't stand it anymore and called Lars. He wasn't in. I called a taxi, and went down to the lobby. While I was waiting there (with $7 in my pocket), a bus passed. "Hey" I thought, "I can save $4.50 by taking a bus home!". So I went over to where the bus stop was to wait for the next one. Unfortunately, the buses come about every half hour, and I'd just missed the last one.

While I was waiting, a woman walking by waved hello and called me "Half". I was confused; who was she? All I could figure was that she worked in the clinic and I'd misheard her. After a few minutes, she drove up and offered me a ride home. I gratefully accepted. It wasn't until later that I realized she was a FOAF (Friend-of-a-Friend) that I'd met a while back. Oops. I told her she got Special Karma Bonus Points for giving me a lift.

When I got home I found two messages from Randi on the answering machine. We met for lunch. It turns out that she had stopped by the hospital at 10 AM, but they told her I'd been discharged (since I'd done the paperwork by then). She gave me a sock monkey she'd made. Awww. We went to Local Boyz, a Hawaiian place near campus, and had the sweet shoyu chicken (which I love). It was wonderful.

During the following week I took antibiotics and slowly got better. It took a while to get back to normal. When I left the hospital they gave me oral amoxicillin. That combined with the IV ampicillin acted like a neutron gut-bomb. The digestive flora in my intestines were in pretty sad shape. I ate a lot of yogurt over the next few weeks.

So, what did I learn from this experience?

You should probably take care of these things early rather than hoping they'll disappear on their own.
Most important, IVs really aren't a big deal. Sure, nobody likes them, but they sure beat the alternative. I think getting that first shot of Demerol on Thursday night really helped. At that point I really didn't care what they did to me, as long as it stopped the pain. From then on, it was a whole lot easier to have hep wells put in, and to deal with the phlebotomists. It hurts for fifteen seconds, then you're back to normal. Don't look, think about something else, and you're just fine.

In the past, you see, I'd always had IVs when I wasn't in pain. That gave me ample time to focus on the pain the IV would cause, rather than the pain it could relieve. Now I know that an IV can be a Really Good Thing.
You can accumulate a lot of email in just a few days. I needed to answer about twenty messages.
Demerol is kind of cool. After the first visit, when Lars was driving me back home, he claims I said things that didn't make sense. I don't remember. What I do remember is having the conviction that if I'd opened a book and tried reading, the text on the page wouldn't have made any sense whatsoever. It would have just been meaningless glyphs. I don't know if this is true, since I went right to sleep when I got home, but I was absolutely sure of it.

Later note. While reading through some old letters, I ran across the fact that at the end of January I'd fainted one morning due to intestinal cramps. I wonder if this had any connection to the later infection.

The Definition of "Pique"

Some time after this, my good friend Lars went into the hospital for surgery on his shoulder. The surgery was done in the morning, after which his boyfriend Paul & I went to visit him. Lars wasn't a happy camper. The anesthetic made him nauseated, so he spent the next eight hours recovering from that.

Paul and I arrived just after noon. I should have eaten lunch first, but I didn't. This came back to haunt me unexpectedly.

We stayed with Lars for about half an hour before his nausea got worse. The nurse came in with a syringe of anti-nausea meds, and I lost it. I suddenly felt light-headed and too warm. This is a telltale warning of impending fainting, so I got out of the area immediately. I walked into the lobby by the nurse's station, sat on the floor, took off my flannel shirt, and tried not to faint. The attempt wasn't working too well, so I laid on my back on the floor and raised my knees.

About this time, one of the nurses noticed what was going on. Paul had come out into the lobby to check on me as well. The nurse saw my condition (pale, clammy skin, et cetera) and brought a cup of orange juice with two packets of sugar in it. It was like a little sugar bomb, but just what I needed. My blood sugar and pressure had probably fallen through the floor.

While I was slowly recovering, she talked with Paul. I'd already told her that I had low blood pressure, was prone to fainting in hospitals, and hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. That seemed to satisfy her. Paul mentioned that I was also diabetic, and that set her off. Was I taking my meds? Did this happen often? Did I regularly test my glucose level? She gave me the "you're not taking care of yourself" set of questions. To my embarrassment, she had Paul feel my arm. See how it's cold and clammy? That's a sure sign of low blood sugar.

My reaction to this was the definition of the word "pique". I was thankful, and amused that she mistook my fainting (which I've done since childhood) for improper diabetes management. At the same time, I was also a little angered that she completely discounted the fact that I knew what was happening and how to treat it on my own. We talked a bit afterward, and I told her that I'd been fainting for decades even though I'd been diagnosed with diabetes just a year ago. She replied that I had probably been borderline. There was no arguing with her; in her eyes, I didn't know how to manage my disease. She was a nice person, and had my best interest at heart, but her disbelief was apparent.

I don't like having my credibility discounted.

Paul and I went down to the cafeteria to get lunch immediately after that. Lars went home that evening, and quickly recovered.

Recommendations

Books

It would be nice to offer you recommendations of fine books, but I can't. Few of the many books I've read this year have that distinction. As a matter of fact, most of my reading's been mediocre. What's stood above the rest is the classics: Shakespeare and the ancient Greek playwrights. Two of my New Year's resolutions were to read a Shakespeare play and Greek play each month. I've managed to keep it up so far, averaging more than one of each per month. So far I've really enjoyed Aeschylus' Oresteian trilogy, Sophocles' Theban trilogy, and Shakespeare's sonnets.

Sometimes the old things are best.

Movies

eXistenZ, The Matrix
Two different directors tackle virtual reality. One's got a big budget, big stars, lots of action, and fabulous special effects, and ran for months. The other's big claim to fame is its writer/director's odd way of looking at the world. It sank quickly, leaving little trace. Guess which is better?

Hand the reader a prize! Of course it's the latter, eXistenZ. Even though it was in some ways inferior to The Matrix, it at least had some thought behind it. When I walked out of The Matrix, there were no questions left to ask except "why did they leave those big plot holes in the film?". When I walked out of the tiny theater that showed eXistenZ, I was wondering if I was interpreting the film correctly. Was I sure of the ending, or was it just another level of reality?

This is where the movies diverged. Whereas Cronenberg isn't afraid to ask the big questions -- "what is reality?" foremost -- The Matrix dismissed that question in the beginning. What was left was nothing but a long action sequence. Great action, but there just wasn't much meat on those bones. I'll take eXistenZ. Look for it on video, since it's probably not in a theater near you. More's the pity.

What was perhaps most disappointing about The Matrix was that within a day of seeing it, I'd already thought of a change that would have made the plot much more interesting on a thematic level. If I -- who almost never knows how to improve things -- can come up with fundamental improvements that quickly, what does that say about the film?

Audio

Elvis Costello & the Brodsky Quartet, The Juliet Letters - a From Oregon EDITOR'S CHOICE -
I found out about this album in a review by Teller (of Penn & Teller). He made it sound like a wonderful thing, and he was right.

The idea for the album came from a newspaper article about a professor in Verona, Italy, who had been answering mail addressed to Juliet Capulet. With that in mind, the artists came up with the idea of an album of letters of all different sorts: begging letters, poison pen letters, love letters, chain letters, suicide notes, et cetera.

The idea is a winner. The letters are funny ("I Almost Had a Weakness"), touching ("I Thought I'd Write to Juliet"), and trenchant ("This Sad Burlesque"). This music stayed in my head for a long time; one song would occupy my attention for days, to be slowly replaced by another just when I thought I'd gotten over the whole album. Right now no one song has my fancy, which means I'm primed to become captivated by one I hadn't paid close attention to before.

The instrumentation connects it all together. In this era of synthesizers, effects modules, and multi-track recording, writing for string quartet and voice gives a unity that doesn't exist on an album like, say, Sergeant Pepper. They're both wonderful, but the string quartet binds the songs in a way that is growing rarer by the day.

Don't take my word for this album's worth; check out Teller's review at Sin City.
XTC, Apple Venus volume 1
The easiest way to describe this album is one word: delight. From the lushly mysterious opening, "River of Orchids", XTC's first album in seven years takes us from simply happy ("I'd Like That") to bitter and angry ("Your Dictionary"), with a bit of a surprisingly pagan side trip ("Easter Theatre", "Green Man"). It ends with a trio of slow songs, a daring move for a pop album. The gambit succeeds, leaving us with a gentle melancholy.

My favorite song is "Harvest Festival", the penultimate track. It's a gentle tale of meeting again a long-ago love. A lyrical excerpt can't do it justice, unfortunately. Suffice it to say that the story is not as simple as it seems.

The album's orchestration falls on the acoustic side of the spectrum. The projected Apple Venus volume 2 is supposed to be a harder, more electrified version. I'm anticipating good music, and surprises.

That's a wrap. Later, folks.

This bulletin is dedicated to Tom Nespeco and his 'zine The Mockingbird, which was a long-forgotten inspiration. Thanks for showing the way.

End Notes

[1] Do I owe royalties to Lucasfilm for this dream?

Last updated 5 August 2004
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All contents ©1999-2002 Mark L. Irons

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