MOTS

Chilly. Windy. No snow. Can't ski, can't bicycle.

At least Wife reports the arrival of red-winged blackbirds at the nature center, singing and claiming prime real estate in the marshes. And a vulture. Signs of spring in Maine, you gotta love 'em. Either that, or give up and move south.

(Of course, having grown up near Hinkley, Ohio, home of Buzzard Sunday, the northern equivalent of the swallows returning to Capistrano, she's used to turkey vultures as a sign of spring.)

Fat Wizard is sitting in his kitchen with his leg in a cast, a bottle of Jack Daniels in front of him. The cork (_old_ bottle, part of the story-line) ended up on the floor, and he hasn't bothered to pick it up. Plans on emptying the bottle instead.

But alcohol may loosen the reins enough for him to make an impossible connection.

Somebody get that scythe away from him...

According to posts on sff.net, David Feintuch has died.

Look, folks, I didn't do it. I know that one of the classic ways of increasing a writer's sales is to kill off all the competition, but I have an alibi. For Octavia Butler's death, too, if the question comes up.