Leaving on a Jetplane

Hi.

Leaving blogspace for a week to go be with family in Chicago for a wedding I imagine will be about the size of Corlene affair at the start of "The Godfather." Taking a good suit, my laptop, the darling wife, and some chill-out clothes out east for a few days. Likely no new entries. Amuse yourselves in whatever way you see fit.

Class last night went smashingly well. The writing mistress was kind, and I'm strongly leaning toward taking the week off when the Pacific Northwest Writers Association sets up their Conference circus tent in Emerald City come July. I need all the experience I can get, and being a volunteer I can get unfettered access to agents and editors galore. *strums fingers together* Bwa ha ha ha ha!

Got great feedback on my sample query letter and my Write-Out-Your-Ass 30-minute exercise. Will type it up on the plane. I need to e-mail it to writing mistress since I'm missing next week's class. No idea how I'm going to do it. I don't have a wifi modem and I can't zap it to a floppy disk to slip in step-dad's computer. Hmm. I might have to type it, and then re-type it on his machine to mail it. Sucks. I could get an old land line into the modem jack and dial in through a 1-800 number, or a local Chicago line.

Still, not exactly life threatening. Will figure it out in a land without the usual distractions of Seattle traffic, all my books, the Gamecube, DVR, and Xbox.

And I have the new Doctor Who downloaded on the laptop, plus the new special edition of the 12 Monkeys DVD. Ha! The fools here at my job offered me a freelance review gig for it.

All this and all the little bags of peanuts I can stand.

70

Took a small walk, got a Diet Pepsi, feeling a little calmer.

In better news, today is the 70-month mark for myself and my wife. Usually, on the 19th of every month, my wife and I celebrate with something small, something of the pizza variety. Tonight, though, I have class, so we will be apart.

Still, we will be together tonight, when my writing mistress has her way with me and bids me adieu. Then, I look forward to one of my favorite times of the day, shutting off the lights and curling into the Big Comfy Bed and nuzzling close with my wife. In the dark, where whispers and touch are the only currencies worth having, we feel each other's heat and heartbeat, reconnecting, together as one. Makes a great many things in this world worth while.

I love you, my dear. Happy 70.

Yesterday's Word: Iron

The pillar of brown metal, flaking with age and exposure the thing that kept the metallurgist alive. A testimony to entropy, he thought. How foolish it is to be afraid of the decay, the thing that will claim us all.

Letters to the Editor

Go read Tom. Below is my sling and arrow.

Dear TIME:

I am appalled at your choice of cover for your April 25 edition. Ann Coulter, who has said a great deal of caustic things in her career, once said "My only regret with Timothy McVeigh is he did not go to the New York Times Building."

April 19, 1995, as you were well aware, was the date of the domestic terrorist attack in Oklahoma City, killing more than 160 Americans, including more than a dozen children. Until the horrific attacks of 9/11, this was the most violent coordinated attack on American soil since the Civil War. For you to have this woman on the cover of your magazine on the tenth anniversary of the Oklahoma City attack is, at best, a shocking lapse of judgment by your organization. Ms. Coulter is a polarizing figure, and I understand putting her on your cover will boost sales, but I expected at least someone with a conscience, with a memory that lasts more than a minute, to recall that you would be publishing this particular issue on the tenth anniversary of the domestic terrorist attack.

Instead of writing a story about the face of domestic terrorism, especially with the Eric Rudolph saga coming to a legal climax, you chose to give your stage to a verbal firebrand who revels in acidic political warfare. You neglect the dead and you promote the fire breathers. Shame on you, Time. I shall never read your magazine again.

John Ryan