It's pretty quiet round these parts with The Brothers on the east coast. I'm catching up with things, organizing, putting the old life in order, drinking vodka drinks, hanging with The Soph. I've got the first draft of MGDB and need to find an agent. Tips? Leads? Extra girds for the loins? I've got a meeting tonight at the neighborhood police station -- an orientation for parents of kids who want to be auxiliary police. Guess who? Big, big sigh with a slow, heavily accented good lord. I'm trying to persuade him that cops while necessary and often wonderful are -- well -- cops. They carry all that shit on their belts, have clubs and tasers and bad haircuts and mirrored sunglasses and wear black leather boots that come up to their knees. How about firemen? is what I ask in my most gently persuasive tone. Tearful, if you're reading, please chant for The Big O and his mother.
I was going to write a Saturday three-line movie review of Amy, the documentary about Amy Winehouse, but I didn't get around to it. Here's a three word review:
Go see it.
