Ugh ugh ugh. Creepy. Just read this article over at salon (I really hate salon, I just can�t stop reading) and I find it so very depressing. But of course I will buy the damned book. I hate the fellow who wrote this.

This, the penultimate paragraph of the icky article, especially makes me want to puke:

But that discussion is moot now. "Journals," better than any biography could hope to be, will make essential reading for anyone looking to understand the 1990s' most important pop star. It's more compelling than "The Rose That Grew From Concrete," the posthumous book of poetry by Cobain's hip-hop counterpart, Tupac Shakur, since it provides a much more intricate look at a figure so complex he couldn't even figure himself out.

And in parentheses, he writes the thing that should be the headline:

(Cobain even mentions in the journals that the kind of thing I'm doing now amounts to "rape.")

Stupid jerkhead jerkoff.

I got up at 4:30 this morning. The boys at my house like to sleep in. Miss Blue, on the other hand, tells me that the wee hours of the morning are her favorite time of day. She came up onto my bed where I was reading and where Harold and Basho were sleeping together and she was so social and affectionate. She followed me all over the house while the boys slept on. Another reason to continue the early morning trend.

Yesterday afternoon at the lake was absolute perfection. Gold and green and rust colored air. Fall sun, big full lake, squawking geese and jubilant dog make for a terrifically happy me.

Ooops, time for departmental meeting. What fun awaits.