oh just go nameless

hell, I'm beat. just came back from Coney Island with shana and I've got sand in my toes and salt in my hair and I'm drained, that way you're drained from Labor day in the sun.

(oh, look, YMMV's back, how exciting)

yeah, so maybe that's what I've got for now, exhausted.

And later I'll go into the story of lying on the beach, in the shadow of the Coney Island ferris wheel, and karaoke belting from the boardwalk, and kids playing in the surf, and me in the ugliest sunglasses you've ever seen, rereading both parts of Angels in America and remembering a little something about "more life" and about angels and, mostly, about America.

because I revisited the Nanci story and the Worcester con, and there's a dozen more like that, the Norton Juster story and the Lore Noto one and the David Whitford one, they just keep resurfacing --

but I think it's time to think a little more about Angels and the Joe Mantello story now. and a little about this kid in college I made wear white gloves and sit on a swing in front of a cloud-cut backdrop, while a girl whose name I can't remember did a monologue I cut together from Angels' "night flight to San Francisco" and a piece by Dario Fo.

it might be time to think about that one again, once I wake up a little bit.

more dinosaurs

I reread where have you gone, Tom Glavine yesterday and then I told Punk what we need is some more sweeping slashy lovestory epics in our lives.

because it would be awfully sad if I only had one in me for my whole damn career. I want more. that was such fun to write.

i'm in Trek now, though, het. so my next sweeping slash lovestory is at least one war epic away.

what a surprise, though, when it shows up and there's something that makes me as proud as Glavine did.

a girl can dream. And write, if I can make this backstory make sense.

(and there are no angels in America)