So Thursday I took Emma to various appointments -- one of them the steroid shot that's supposed to maybe make her stop hurting -- and went to the City to pick up Frank. I've decided that I'd rather drive to the City on Sunday and Thursday to take him and pick him up than to have him take the train (and bus). This is not because he's so tender he
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I'm glad Perfect Circle is more recent than Galveston and the books of that ilk, because I didn't like Galveston and it's nice to think that the direction he's going is towards more books I like.
It says in the back of the book that he lives in Davis -- about a hundred miles from here, in the Valley. I have no idea how that could be made to be useful to me, but it's nice to think that such a congenial writer is writing away in the land of walnut trees and magpies, not so far away.
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However, the toy animal didn't look like a rabbit either.
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