Theoryland of the Wheel of Time

Well, the appetite is beginning to slip, and last night was miserable. I wasn't sick, per se, but I felt as if I were about to become sick shortly and I couldn't sleep worth a damn. Oh, well. I'm still doing pretty well. I managed a good (if bland) supper last night and a decent breakfast this morning. I am beginning to look around for any possible sources of calories I can get down for the future. That does mean anything, dark chocolate bars, ice cream, peanut M&Ms, anything. I'm not looking forward to it. The last time I got sick enough to be on this sort of diet, I lost 13 pounds in ten days. I mean, I like peanut M&Ms, but how many of the bloody things can you eat?

For Steakley, if you're still hanging around, contact jason@dragonmount.com, and he'll give you a direct e-mail to me. Mike Ford is arriving today, and there are some others in line, but you'd be most welcome for a few days later on. Chattacon, now. That was long ago when the world was green, now wasn't it? As I recall, I handed your clothes over to the young woman behind the front desk at the same time that I reported the possible presence of a naked and very drunk (remember that Lone Star belt buckle, about the size of a Mack Truck tire?) exceedingly drunk Texan wandering the halls of the hotel. I did learn that the Chattanooga PD had a tranquilizer-gun team for dealing with bears and the like that got into the city, and it seemed to be that you certainly qualified, but she was ratcheted to a whole new level. At least I was able to talk her out of calling the SWAT; she had been told about the previous night, John. That sort of word spreads. Neither police departments nor fire departments nor municipal zoos keep quiet in circumstances like those. She took the garments using tongs, as I remember. I thought she had returned to them to you the next morning, though that might have been a different morning and the young lady from the night before. Ah, yes; the good old days of youthful innocence, when unicorn horn went for a dollar a pound.

Harriet just leaned over my shoulder to read and said, "Huh! You were never innocent, sport. And you were smuggling unicorns."

For Chris Dalby, I wouldn't think of playing tricks on the staff here. At least, not beyond occasionally, when someone asks me to spell my name for identification purposes, spelling it R-i-c-h-a-r-d N-i-x-o-n or the like. No more than that. These guys are trying to keep me alive.

And for David Litwin, I've been in Montreal before on tour, and expect that sooner or later I'll be there again.

And now I am going to prepare some quick-and-dirty gumbo, Charleston-style, which is the only real gumbo. I mean, file? Roue? Okra thickens the broth just fine, thank you. And shrimp?!?!?!? In gumbo? Well, I eat it when I'm in NOLA, but even my brother and nephew, who live there, can't convince me that it's really gumbo. The question will be whether, having made the gumbo, I can actually manage to eat it here and now. We shall see. Yes, indeed we shall.

I told you this was going to be very brief. So long for now, guys.

RJ