The other redhead

That's me! To one reunion spouse, I am "the other redhead." (The primary redhead being the lovely Heidi Jensen) and it cracked me up. Because, you see, that's how Jon has been learning about the score of folks that he had to meet and hang with over this past reunion weekend. There was Beate, whose clothes were stolen in a Moscow bath (turns out that story wasn't entirely remembered correctly, but never mind, we had fun). And Muffy who had the guinea pig in the washtub freshman year. Loulon from Cajun country (who now works in New Orleans and NEVER goes out to hear music. How is this possible?) Eloise (who indirectly caused my drummer to break his hand - he punched a wall when they broke up, not her fault). And Mike and Jennifer, and Jeff and Tama, Liz and Greg, and and and...

It wasn't until yesterday afternoon, when I met another old friend Shelley (who always wore heels, but who did excercises to keep her achilles tendons from shrinking) for coffee, that I realized we all use the same systems, though. We met at Pamplona (which still exists, for which we are both grateful) and her sweet husband Ari came up and said, "Clea - the other redhead." To which I can only say, "Pleased to meet you!"

So, all in all, a very pleasant experience. Hi to any classmates or other old friends out there. So glad to have met you again.

David Simon on the birth of "The Wire"

From the same Boston Phoenix blog, or "phlog," this tidbit from Kafka's letters, about housebreaking his cat:


“How hard it is to arrive at an understanding with an animal on this question. There seem to be only misunderstandings, for the cat knows, through blows and other explanation, that there is something undesirable about taking care of her needs of nature, and that the place for it has to be carefully chosen. So what does she do? Well, for example she chooses a spot that is dark, that will in addition show me her affection...But from the human side this spot happens to be inside my bedroom slipper.”

Murder in the stacks?

Why do writers love libraries? Maybe a better question would be: how could we resist? All those books, all that quiet, all those lovely little corners to hide away in. I recently found that I could get a limited pass to Harvard University's storied Widener Library and, boy, am I having fun. My excuse is that my current work-in-progress features a grad student who just happens to stumble across a body. The body belongs to her roommate, and the stacks are her refuge. But having spent a few hours in the quiet, narrow passageways, with floor-to-ceiling books making everything feel very private, I have a feeling things may change... not sure I want to put a body in there. But maybe... hmmm...