That Glass Again

It's been one of those really frightening weeks, where all the news has been pretty darned good so you know the big shoe is getting ready to drop. The Great Plotnik asks himself sometimes why the glass can't just be three quarters full for a change, instead of half empty and about to spring a leak?

Plottie stood outside Domin-Nik's house last night, talking with three other Tiaposian writers about the stories everyone had read or played earlier. They'd all been weird and fascinating. "We're all pretty wacked out, aren't we?" he asked, but it wasn't a question.

It was still light at 9pm. It was comfortable, no sweaters. There was that unmistakable, undeniable and unforgettable Saint Plotniko smell of sea and breeze and tomorrow's fog forming somewhere out near the Farallons, mixed with some entrepreneur cooking up something tasty in a bistro up on Cortland, or something less salutory but more profitable in his basement around the corner. Plotnik and Motorhead and Mushnik and Bombshell all smiled deep smiles as we got into our cars, with The Great Domin-Nik still inside, hopefully figuring out how to change that dog's diet.