Sinister: A Taste of (Miss) Honey

[Brier Random]

If you're like me (and if you are, may God help you), you've always wanted
to know what List-mum Honey looks like.  I think we all have our own mental
image.  Mine, I think, was something like a cross between Mary Tyler Moore
and the guy from the "William It Was Really Nothing" sleeve.  But how wrong
I was.  How do I know?  Because I've finally seen a picture of our Honey.
She'll probably never forgive me for spilling the beans like this.  But if
she wanted her image to remain forever shrouded in mystery, then she
shouldn't have agreed to appear on the cover of her autobiography, which I
ran across at Borders yesterday and posessively clutched to my chest as I
practically ran to the check-out counter.

She's really much lovelier than I ever imagined.  But if you'd like your
mental image not erased by hard evidence, then don't look.  For all curious
others, the front cover of the book (which is an excellent read, too) is
here:

http://www.missprint.org/sinister/things/MissHoneysAutoBiog.html

I read it for a second time tonight, as the pouring dashing rain continues
to pound my Santa Barbara.  I shouldn't really complain though, because it's
dumping snow everywhere else.  But at least snow is pretty.  Water really
isn't.

And I wrote a column for our local free weekly, about what's happening
music-wise here in SB.  I actually managed to name-check Belle et Sebby, if
only in comparison to The Microphones (who played here on Friday).  But I
believe it was the first mention of our favorite band to appear in any local
media here.  Ever.  And I also managed to sneak in quotes by Bukowski and
F.S. Fitzgerald, which I consider a personal triumph.

And I'm watching a Discovery Channel show on cats.  Housecats.  Didja know
that the width of their whiskers equals the width of their body at its
widest point?  So when they try to walk through a tight spot, if their
whiskers touch the sides, they know they won't fit thru.

And I sit listening to the rain outside.  And my mind wanders to every girl
I've ever loved.  And I wonder where they all are now.  My whiskers brushed
against their sides, I guess.  Somebody else is loving them.  And I walk
about in my floppy shorts, smoking too many cigarettes, trying to make drama
out of no damned progress at all.

But I hold fast to the tremble-wavering spirits that boost us in these
strange strange times.

B.

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