It goes one way or the other: I'm up late and have to get up super-early, frazzled, or I'm up late and get to sleep in, but I sleep in for too long and wake up logey and unhappy that I haven't achieved anything yet.
Stupid sleep that I always need to always have seven or so hours of.
The Cramps' Lux Interior died yesterday. I feel bad that I didn't find that out until after I did my WHFR show, though I did manage to play some Cramps in the bar later. (I think the WHFR show went just all right.) Brief blurb here before the meatier ones start to roll in.
(Yes, I am aware that John Updike is also dead and that I failed to mention it here before now. Maybe sometime I will tell about being in a client's apartment the day he died and hearing her give an extemporaneous criticism of all his work while I put her dog's coat on.) (I guess I just did tell that story, actually.)
Nuthin' much else is happ'n'n'. Prepping for Chicago, daunted by the prospect of book-fair and literary-event insanity but happy that it looks like I *will* be able to afford the nice hotel room I booked. At the Sheraton Four Points, boys.