Current accomplishment: Updating again. Has it really been that long? [That's a rather personal question, sir. -- ed.]
Current music: Vivaldi motets (&c.) with Suzie Le Blanc and Tragicomedia. Vivaldi's vocal music is a tremendous delight, since the vocal line often breaks into wordless, quasi-instrumental exuberance. And then he turns around and pulls off some astounding word painting, like the stacked upward leaps with which he depicts sunrise at the line a solis ortu of the Salve Regina RV 617.
Current Vice of Choice: Beer, wanton flirtation, and a whole platter of french fries at Ch*rl**'s. I cannot restrain my unquenchable thirst for lipids; one day this will catch up with me and then I'll be sorry. O yes; there'll be hell to pay, and not enough Charon's pence on the planet to weigh my overstuffed eyelids down with. I picked MG up at work (he was out behind the restaurant smoking, like his colleagues said he would be. We went to Ch*rl**'s; the waitress was too thin and my beer was missing the pint mark by a good ounce. But the fries were delicious.
Current fixation: Mandelbaum's Ovid, which is so damn good. Yes, sir-ee Bob. You can never be too thin or read too much Ovid.
Current accomplishment (ii): moving my rickety, ugly as a formica shithouse chest-of-drawers into the cupboard. This opens my room up, so it looks a little less like a course of hurdles studded with hurricane debris. In the process of doing which, I began sorting through my clothing. My wardrobe is an embarrassment of britches, and can be reliably divided into the unexciting stuff I wear on a regular basis, the exciting stuff that is too fabulous to wear in public, or at least to co-ordinate with the rest of what I wear (I have nothing, for example, to wear with the PVC pants) and the stuff that I only wear when I'm ill. Henceforth, I shall suffer either well-dressed or naked (which is well-dressed enough). Good-bye, say I, to all those mid-nineties size large Sears black t-shirts with breast pocket which have faded to a rusty grey. Hello to more campy western shirts from the G*rm*nt D*str*ct and tight-ass H&M jeans.
Current sexuality: None. I have not got laid, properly, improperly or triple-minor-longwise for far too long. If this continues, I shall have to found a new religion. At the very least, I should completely soundproof my room. O god, o god.
Current gripe: the thick stroke on the capital "Y" which makes up the sign for the P*n*lt* B*x (set in a rather noxious extended block-serif roman) is on the right-hand side. There are two kinds of people in the world: those struck dumb with grief and horror when a typesetter has failed to use an f-i ligature, and the typographically preterite. This latter are worthless filth who should be summarily flushed from the planet. [Does it pain you that this is the sort of decree I shall make when I am overlord of creation?]
There comes a still-point of every midnight when my vision has blurred beyond what is strictly desirable and, with alarming suddenness, I begin to hear every click of my watch with ear-shattering precision. My beloved chair has long since ceased to be comfortable, my right arm aches where it became bionic, and my toes are turn'd sepulchrally cold. The point has come. Alas, all my entry is spilt in preludizing. For more matter and less currency, you will have to wait till the morrow.