"I shut the door. I turn the lock. Alone once more. And no one can hear me cry. No one."

It occurs to me that the Shangri-Las were the emo LiveJournal posters of the sixties. The difference is, back then, you needed a recording contract to be able to tell the world about the unending rain that drips like bitter tears into the dry dark chasm of your life.

It's much work, measuring turtles.

Pleasant night tonight! Broadway was lit up like...well, like Broadway, with searchlights stabbing the sky to announce the news: Darryl Hannah is in town! And she is eating dinner! Apparently! Two policemen and some narrow-eyed bodyguards stood vigil outside of Brindisi's.

On my way to worship my dark goddess Caffeinea (say it softly, it's almost like praying), I was nearly run over by two middle-aged women who'd just had facials—and I know that they'd just had facials because they rolled down the window and called me over to explain, apologize, flirt, and hold up traffic, in that order. Once I made it to the coffee shop, 1) barista Dave asked about my book and chatted with me while scraping salt off his salt bagel; 2) cute barista β sat next to me to watch Cardcaptor Sakura on her laptop; and 3) cute barista α (aka Amanda) actually skritched my back as she was leaving! I was confused: "Who in this town would skritch my back unannounced, apart from adfamiliares?" So nice to find unexpected friendly contact!

I finally began reading Jeff VanderMeer's Shriek: An Afterword, which I've had on the pile since the day of its release. (I have this problem: I get all excited when a book I've been waiting for is released, and buy it in hardcover, but by the time I get to read it it's about to come out in trade paperback. And I generally prefer trade paperback; they sit better in my hand. Well, this way the writers get more of my money, at least.) Shriek is an afterword to a nonexistent book, putatively written by the sister of the author after his disappearance, then annotated by the author of the original after his reappearance. The first 25 pages, at least, are discursive yet immediate, with images that still linger vividly around my head. How can I write like that? Expository and contemplative and wordy, while still carrying the reader along. How do I know how far I can push it?

I return home with booty (no, not that kind): Arcade Fire's Neon Bible, which everyone (the New Yorker and David Byrne and All Songs Considered) keeps going on about; Grinderman, Nick Cave's new project; and Real Genius on DVD. Total cost: <$40. adfamiliares will be pleased when she returns from the contra, I hope.

Title from this intriguing mathematical and testudinal bit of news.