gentle readers or not as the case may be.

a friend sent me an article about Raymond Chandler. His late wife’s  ashes were finally interred with him. Since she was hanging around the mauseleoum since 1959, I’m going to assume they have a lot to catch up on in the spirit plane. He was and is the best damn detective writer ever. His stories are guides to human behavior and the stunning lack of it, more rather than less. This is, of course, assuming anyone can still actually read.

Yes, I’m old and need lots of coffee at this exact moment. And a walk along the beach with the 10ft waves this day. The beauty of his writing is that it never loses its self truth. Oh, you can read all the blather that passes for literature these days, but it isn’t written on a typewriter using a bottle of scotch as backup.

I’m thinking of going up to little fawn lake, but since blondes look like the devil wearing a purple hat after they shoot their tenant in the shower, it’s going to be a red, the kind of red you get here filtered through the autumn forest fires. Besides, I know she’s already the Lady of the Lake . A poem that a whole story was built around. And avoiding all the exact same group of people he described then will still be as tedious as it was before.

I warned you I needed more java to constract mah veins.  Oh, the phone is ringing, it’s Paris, and there’s music dancing in the air.

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