Today's the day that I've set aside for plowing through the huge backlog of comics that I have to give a second reading before filing away. Jumpin' Jack Pratt, I read a lot of comic books.

The Bald Mountain called me yesterday, but I was out. He's so far out in the hinterland of upstate New York that his cell phine doesn't work. He's at the Seagle Music Colony, but something about that description doesn't sit right with me. He strongly objects to calling it a camp, but it seems an apt description for a two-month, thirty-member program that takes place in a remote location during the summer. "Music colony" makes me think of lousy beatniks and seems only one small step removed from being a commune for dirty hippies. Ooo, I hate dirty hippies.

Every dirty hippie need a good beating at the metal-tipped boots of some oi punks. I hate oi punks, too, but not as much as dirty hippies.

Anyway, I really miss the Mountain. The suckiest part about leaving Michigan is that I'm also leaving him. The best reason I can think of to be successful as a writer is to have the freedom to live where I want i.e. live wherever his work takes him. I don't think most people have a Bald Mountain, someone in their life who means as much to them as he does to me. If true, I pity those people.

One of the things for which I most hate frat boys is the way they bastardize and abuse the word "brother."