That is not it, at all

1. A postcard arrived for me from Venice and Paris, from hylomorphist. It requests that I write the sender a short story based on Max Ernst's La Toilette de la mariée (1940):



We'll see how that goes, then.

2. Successfully dredged from the depths of Google search strings, cucumberseed has posted his brilliant crossover of Star Wars and T.S. Eliot, "The Lovesong of Admiral Piett." I would request this for Strange Horizons if I didn't think the estate of George Lucas would decapitate me.

3. Dora Goss took a photo of the Naked City reading at Porter Square Books on Thursday in which gaudior, rushthatspeaks, and I are all visible in the audience. We have those expressions because a man in the first row has just asked a Teutonically complicated question about semiotics and message that had absolutely nothing to do with any of the stories, much less with cities. It was kind of awesome.

I should write about both Julian Schnabel's Basquiat (1996) and Richard Hughes' In Hazard (1938), but I think Rush and I are going to collapse on the futon and watch something first.