Among other amusements this evening, I roughed out another first draft on the Treo, this time not on the bus but prone on the couch.

Since the laptop drive is providing failure warnings, I had considered my options and determined that an outboard backup drive was the place to start. It is, and what have you.

So I’m studiously leaving the laptop alone whilst CCC clones out a baby. Time and tide wait for no man, I hear King Wenceslaus once larned him, and I’ll be god-damned if I let selflessness like that go unremarked upon.

Speaking of the self, Greg and Stacey very accurately laid the Bob Dylan autobio, part one, upon me last week. I started reading it last night, and so far Bobby’s het-up reimagining of Greenwich Village circa 1960 as the last outpost of Victoriana (note the repeated motif of gas and kerosene lamps) is both compelling and suffused with the hilarity of the improbable.

It’s a slo-mo Desolation Row, and it’s sticking with me. I can’t wait to get back to it.