I can’t stop watching the doggie cam at Camp Bow Wow in Colorado. Sally Cruikshank, the famous animator, mentioned on her blog that her German Shepard is being boarded there (seen above at right). So now I stare at the cute doggies cavorting about, occasionally swirling around the human attendant with such enthusiasm I sort of wait and sort of hope for a canine mutiny.

After Moya and Leanne’s wedding last weekend (during which I read Frost’s The Master Speed and completely and totally lost my shit crying, gulping, only able to squeak out little sad little syllables one at a time before boo-hooing some more, good lord,) I had to make the long night drive back to Ventura. To stay alert, I sang along to Hard Day’s Night, twice. The first time, singing all the parts (and harmonies) of John; the second time, all the parts and harmonies of Paul. Paul almost always took high harmony — much easier to sing. As a matter of fact, I did have a lot of time on my hands as a youth. Why do you ask?

I have been jumping to alarming conclusions, completely bypassing logic and rational process. Examples:

• Weird stabby pain in chest = heart attack
  [Until, of course, I removed my horrible, sternum-poking bra, whereupon the pain magically stopped.]
• Niece not returning my emails = she hates her aunt
  [She may hate me, but it may also be due to having two small
  children and a graveyard shift husband and her getting a master’s
  degree, all at the same time?]
• Stranger jiggling my apartment doorknob = I’m about to be killed
  [That may have been a valid response. But it turned out to be a confused houseguest of a neighbor, after all.]