Tuesday, February 6, 2001

 

6:33 p.m. A total flip of the day -- I've been sleeping and aching off and on, all day long ... and then suddenly and finally -- here it is at 6:33 and I finally feel a whole lot better.

Maybe it's due to the interventions of St. Isidore. He's the new (nearly approved) patron saint of the Internet, and not a minute too soon. Perhaps he watches out for all those of us who lean over desks all day.

(The Dürer woodcut, opposite, shows another saint, Jerome, at work. Looks to be a sunny day. Pets and skulls are all behaving nicely.)

In other worlds, other times ... I certainly saw this one coming: Stacey Stillman, a lawyer, is suing Survivor, a successful show. My own dear Igor met with her a few times last fall, back when I was putting The Stingray together as an independent book so that the author, Peter Lance, could make his own way in the ways of the world.

Stacy had some exclusive photos of folks on the island -- her "luxury item" had been a camera. Clever girl. However, she didn't know what kind of big, really big deal she wanted to create with her photos, so she decided against letting Peter use them in his book.

Just as well --

Life is too, too short to be able to pull off the perfect deal. You will never, ever come out ahead if you think someone is trying to pull something over on you. Somebody will always outsmart you, make more money, look better on TV, outwit ... and of course, outlast you.

Really -- the sooner you just let sleeping dogs have their nap, the better off you are. Really. I have totally made my peace with the hue and cry outside my study window ...

... and can I tell you how ebullient I feel now that the infection seems to have been beaten back again? I'm going to avoid all sweets, (most sweets), all cinnamon bread, and in general I'm going to repledge myself to fruits and grains.

Don't want my skull to throb no more. I think I've learned that lesson, albeit late in the day. Vegetables are my hairy, spiny, prickly friends.