My, that last post was a downer. I re-read it, which I rarely do, and was surprised. Not to worry, I only get in those spaces every so often and rarely in print. I'm the first to admit I write for me, not for entertainment. I'm feeling less the Alcoholic Writer today; perhaps the two double margaritas at El Coyote last night helped. 

It's been a week of rare overcast skies and fall weather here in Los Angeles, perfect for reflecting on the death of things, while my Advent studies have me reflecting how to be watchful, alert and waiting for birth. I'm writing in broad strokes because I'm the last person to try and deliver any intelligent religious message, either subtle or in-your-face. 
Speaking of in-your-face; here's a rare 'no shades' shot of me at the desk. My fancy new webcam tends to Eastmancolorize my images, and being ultra vain, I'm on the fence on this one's appeal. But in the others I tended to look either too wired or too grainy, so I'm biting the bullet. I saw BURN AFTER READING yesterday and mused as to why when I grow a beard, George Clooney begins to sport one also. I beat him in the chest hair department though.