Tuesday, November 28, 2006

My blood runs cold, my memory has just been sold.

So, for those people who have the sense to live someplace else than Los Angeles, here is my interview in Los Angeles magazine. A few notes; when you are shot by someone lying on the ground and pointing upwards, you get a double chin.

To the best of my knowledge, I do not have a double chin.

Also, while my eyes slightly asymmetrical, the asymmetry is well within the normal human range, as opposed to the Ode to Cubism this picture implies.

Finally, while I do understand the exigencies of editing, would it have killed them to use fewer quotes, but actually quote me from beginning of an answer to an end? I swear, some of these answers make me sound like Yoda on Ny-Quil. I can't figure out yet how to attach the file large enough for most people to read my gnomic utterances, so you're going to have to take my word for it. In the land of Los Angeles magazine, I have a weak chin, an off-kilter eye and a predeliction for oblique aphorisms.

And it's still better than I had feared.

(Additional note: I feel obliged to mention that I have never interviewed someone nor edited an article for a magazine, which means I have no reason to be commenting on how someone else has done it)

Monday, November 27, 2006

New product.

In response to your letters alerting me to your tall and independent children, please know that Hiphugger has taken note.

Research and Development has now started working on a Hiphugger which doesn't carry children, but helps them pay down college loans and keeps them from moving back home in their mid-twenties.

Sunday, November 26, 2006

Don we now our gay apparel.

I just had a thought.

I was trying to think of something to get each one of you but, as you know, you're all nearly impossible to shop for. Here's my December present to my loyal readers, for putting up with a nearly endless parade of head wound stories this year. If you feel so inclined, go to
www.thehiphugger.com, order a Hiphugger, and mention as how you read the blog. I'll give you a $10.00 discount.

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

Knit none, purl two.

Daughter and I were reading in perfect contentment. Or rather, I thought Daughter was reading; I turned a page of my book and caught her eye as she stared thoughtfully at me. I enquired as to why I was more interesting than those Magic Treehouse kids.

“You read knitting books all the time and you’re always in a good mood after you read them,” she said in a pensive tone.

I acknowledged as this was so. But, it seems, I had interrupted her, and she continued.

“…But you never actually knit.”

Sharper than a serpent’s tongue is an observant child, for it forces you to confront (for me, confront in print) your psychological irregularities.

I love to read knitting books. The pictures in knitting books leave me with nothing but happy answers in my head:

…I could make Consort and Daughter these matching reindeer sweaters. They could wear them when they are playing in the snow. I could make a third matching sweater for the dog. Christmas picture, 2007!

…I could make this blanket and drape it over the spot on the couch just like this picture. It will be an elegant way to cover the juice stain which didn’t completely come out.

…Everyone needs more pot holders.

However, actually knitting fills my head with one horrible, demoralizing question:

…Why does this (infant cardigan, hat, sleeve) resemble a double helix?

Because nearly everything I knit quickly develops an uncanny resemblance to a double helix. The only things which don’t resemble a double helix are the potholders I knit. They resemble tumors.

The secret ingredient to my freakish skill is gauge; or lack thereof. For the non-knitter reading this, gauge is the amount of stitches per inch to be expected from the yarn and the knitting scheme. At the beginning of any pattern, you will find a gauge guide with how many stitches and rows it should take to create a sample size. This is supposed to keep you from creating a seventeen-foot long sleeve.

I see a phrase like “Gauge: 9 sts and 13 rows= 4” over Stockingette stitch” and I laugh mirthlessly. I’ll start there, sure. The first three rows will be a model of conformity and concord. But I had Carpal Tunnel Syndrome when I was pregnant with Daughter, and while it went slinking away within eighteen hours of my giving birth, it left me with some capricious nerve damage to my hands. I say capricious because I can type endlessly with no ill effect (and believe me, on the days when the muse refuses to visit me, I would love to blame my lack of writing on a medical condition); but if I bend my arm in the way a knitter is inclined to, within minutes the nerve inflammation comes rushing back all too eager to remind me how it’s the boss of me.

It’s not painful, it’s weirder than that.

[“Quinn, did you say something about you is medically weird? How can that be?” Oh, do shut up.]

What happens is that my thumb and first three fingers go completely numb. After a couple of minutes, I can look down and watch what feels like someone else’s hand knitting and purling away. If this other knitter were competent, it would actually be kind of fun. But since I have no feeling in the fingers creating the yarn tension, I start playing something like “Red light, green light” with the yarn. My fingers start slackening until I could conceivably use the yarn as a wee jump rope, then having seen that, I tighten. But I tighten too much, having no digital feedback, so within a row, I have something between my fingers which looks like a garrote for a guinea pig.

In theory, a gauge sample is nearly always a square or a rectangle. When I do it, it’s always Anything Can Happen day. Sometimes, the gauge sample has the curvy shape of a cotton/poly Jessica Rabbit. Other times, it produces a floppy triangle, An isosceles triangle, never an equilateral one. One thrilling night, when I was doing battle with mohair, I managed to create something not entirely unlike a geodesic dome. Its very existence mocked the idea of a gauge, but did somehow nod its head to Salvador Dali.

Once in a while, feeling bad and maverick-y, I have chosen to continue with a knitting pattern without actually confirming the gauge sample. Perhaps you already see the problem; if my hand goes numb after a few minutes and the quality of my knitting goes to hell, what happens after, say, a half-hour? The answer is terrible things. The width of the knitting drifts in, wanders out, has brief rows of consistency which only give the observer a heartbreaking glimpse of what might have been if only I knew what my fingers were doing. People looking at what I’m making tend to say the same things you say to small children who proudly present you with a picture of…something:

“Well, aren’t you working hard!”

“You must be very proud of that!”

“Wow, Quinn, that’s a great…that’s knitting, right?”

And how does it develop the iconic twisting shape of the double helix? How do I without fail create a shape which would be the envy of high-school biology teachers everywhere? I’m not entirely certain. Clearly, it has something to do with my numb, club-like fingers; apparently, if you are tightening and loosening the yarn at random intervals, the knitting starts to spiral, perhaps in an attempt to get away from you.

Halfway through the project, I bow to the inevitable and acknowledge that this twisted bit of increasingly arbitrary width is not going to magically transform itself into a set-in sleeve, and I unravel the yarn. I unravel the yarn sullenly. I unravel the yarn ungraciously. I unravel the yarn while picking fights with people. But I unravel the yarn. Then I commence the re-knitting of the sleeve; it goes no better the second time around, or the third. After the fourth time, when the yarn is now grubby and irredeemably stretched-out, I jam the entire thing in the bottom of the closet, along with the crafting dead ends Everyone Loves to Felt and Delightful Decoupage. By the time the third half-finished double helix bounced off the closet floor, I was prepared to admit that knitting affords me no pleasure and generates no attractive accessories. In fact, knitting irritates the hell out of me.

about being a knitter, though, is wonderful. In my mind, I’m one of those women who knit in movie theaters. I decide on Tuesday to whip myself up a stylish halter top, and wear it on Saturday night. Daughter and I pore through my most recent knitting magazine, and she points to a Fair Isle sweater and shyly asks me to make it for her. I fondly pat her head and say “Of course, sweetheart”. People stop using rulers in this house, preferring to use my gauge samples, because they are just that even.

And every time I start to think dangerous things like “Maybe it will be different this time” or “…it’s a pattern designed for children to do; how much less fine motor control can I have than a five year-old?...”, I go to the closet and gaze down at my stalled inventory of yarn helixes, silently gathering dust, but never coming uncoiled.

Monday, November 20, 2006

Conversation Peace.

[The muse perversely refuses to take my calls. Please accept my apologies and a rerun until I am worthy of your company again.]


I sometimes wonder if the psychologists who wax rhapsodic over the importance of the Family Dinner have ever participated in one. The fact remains; we love each other dearly, but have painfully different definitions of what constitutes fascinating table talk:

CONSORT: What’s everyone been up to today?

DAUGHTER: Jason told me a joke. Why…why did the…why did…

(We wait and chew. The cat attempts to jump on the table)

DAUGHTER: Look! Lu wants my chili!

(I swat cat off table lightly)

DAUGHTER: I want to give Lulabelle a bowl of chili!

QUINN: No, sweetheart. (Prompting) Why did the…?

DAUGHTER: Oh, yeah. Why did the rooster cross the road?


DAUGHTER: Because he had poop on his tail!

(She chortles heartily at this. Consort and I attempt a supportive expression. I turn to Consort)

QUINN: How was your day?

CONSORT: Busy. I got over to Frye’s on the way home, and you wouldn’t believe how cheap 80 gigs is getting. Back in the early nineties, I remember getting a …

(I will spare all of you the following paragraph. Suffice to say, an 80 gig hard-drive used to cost a great deal more than it does now. Hard Drive Chat makes me long for Golf Chat. I feign attention. Daughter plays with food and tries to lure the cat back on to the table).

CONSORT: (Five minutes later) …which makes me think we should have gotten the bigger monitor.

(There is a pause, and I realize with a start that I am supposed to contribute something)

QUINN: That crazy Bill Gates.

(Consort stares at me. Apparently, I did not raise the level of discourse. Mercifully, the cat jumps on the table. Consort brushes her off)

DAUGHTER: Why can’t Lulabelle eat on the table?

QUINN: It’s unsanitary, sweetheart.

DAUGHTER: What does that mean?
QUINN: Gross. Besides, she has a bowl and a place to eat. She doesn’t need to be on the table, eating grated cheese

(Having been focused on Daughter, I look over now and realize Lulabelle is on the table, whisker-deep in the Cheddar. I scoot her off and remove the cheese to the sink).

CONSORT: (To me) How was your day?

QUINN: Productive, sort of. And I started reading an interesting book at the gym.

CONSORT: (Fearfully) Really?

A side note: I am the most girlishly squeamish movie-watcher in the world: I actually flinch when someone gets slapped. This makes it ironic that I am endlessly fascinated by non-fiction books on subjects which would turn the stomach of an ambulance driver. I also have some personality deficit which prevents me from recognizing not everyone finds post-mortem putrefaction compelling.

DAUGHTER: May I be excused? I have to go to the bathroom.

QUINN: Yes. (Back to Consort) You’d like this book; it’s partially a history of Manhattan.

(Consort relaxes slightly)

QUINN: During the Influenza epidemic of 1917, 500 people were arrested in New York for violating “Spitless Sunday”. Sounds silly, but it was really the only recourse the public health officials had against this pandemic. They were completely outclassed by this incredibly devastating flu strain. A doctor of the time attended an autopsy and described the lungs of a flu victim as resembling melted red currant jelly…

(Consort pushes away bowl of chili. Daughter returns from direction of bathroom carrying the squirming cat and the cat’s bowl of food. She puts the bowl on the table, and starts hoisting the cat up there)

CONSORT: No, sweetheart.

(The cat bolts for freedom as Daughter scowls, grabs the bowl and huffs off)

QUINN: Put her food bowl away and come back, please. You need to eat some more food.
(To Consort) Did you know “Exsanguination” is the fancy term for bleeding to death? There were flu victims who quite literally died with a gush of pulmonary blood vomiting out of their mouth. Can you imagine?

CONSORT: I can now.

(Daughter stomps back to the table, glowering. She sits in her chair, and pokes at her food disdainfully with her fork)

QUINN: Don’t give it a massage, honey. Just eat it.

DAUGHTER: How many bites?

Another side note: The phrase “How many bites?” is the small child’s most potent dinner weapon. It’s a tool which guarantees that while the child might take in another one hundred calories, at most, the rest of the meal will be spent in active negotiation. Some nights, I don’t engage. Some nights, I do.

QUINN: Six bites.

(Daughter moves the fork with glacial slowness into the food, and removes a molecule of chili, and a fleck of kidney bean. She looks mournfully at me)

QUINN: More than that.

(The fork dips in, and takes another dot of chili, from which she stops to remove a suspicious cell that might, if you added another ten thousand cells, be a piece of onion.)

CONSORT: I had something nice happen today...

QUINN: Good for you. (To Daughter) Make a decent-sized spoonful, young lady, or I will do it for you, and neither of us wants that.

(The cat jumps on the table next to Daughter, and quickly sticks her face into Daughter’s bowl. Daughter whoops in delight. I quickly grab cat, but not before I see at least a quarter cup of cat hair shower down into Daughter’s food)

QUINN: Oh, look. Dinner’s over.

DAUGHTER: What can I have for dessert?

QUINN: You have got to be kidding.

(Off she stomps to her room. There is silence as Consort and I stare at one another)

QUINN: Anyway, scientists say that it’s not a matter of if we have another flu pandemic, but when. There’s a particularly virulent flu seen in chickens in China right now with nearly 100% fatality rates. If it mutates into human form we’re all exsanguinating like crazy…

CONSORT: I have an idea. Why don’t you read that book to yourself, and keeping the interesting facts for, y’know, later? I’ll just read the paper, and we’ll have a lovely, quiet dinner. Nice. Quiet. Dinner.

That was the best thing I heard at the dinner table all week.

Sunday, November 12, 2006

Love machine.

The cat thinks she is in love, but I suspect it’s mostly physical.

Lulabelle, like all cats for whom I have had the privilege of buying smelly food, becomes enthralled with sleeping in certain places. You’d think if you spent two-thirds of your life in a REM cycle, you wouldn’t be so picky about where you did it, but every cat I have known has obsessed on a special place to sleep, and only that place will do, but only temporarily.

For seven days, it’s “Draped precariously over the back of a dining room chair is where all the fashionable cats snore!”, and on day eight they avoid the chair as if it’s covered in yappy terriers. For the next three days, it’s “The hottest feline club in town? Why, everyone knows it’s in the closet, sleeping with your head shoved into a stinky Converse!”

From there, who knows? What makes a sleeping place desirable to a cat is as plain to them as it is opaque to the Big Food Servers who roam the house. Mostly, I let Lulabelle be Lulabelle, except when the chic resting place was draped across a pound of Cheddar cheese.

About two weeks ago, Consort came home and went into the office to check the forty work emails which had accumulated since he left the office. First I heard the surprised yelp, and then I heard “Quinn…?” in the way which could be correctly read as “Please come attend to something. It’s weird, and it’s yours”.

I hear that tone a lot.

I went into the office, and Consort pointed into a shadowy and cramped corner of the desk, where all the extra bits of the computer live. I saw shadow, and then I saw yellow eyes in the shadow; Lulabelle had crammed herself in a space about 60% of her girth and had gone to sleep. Consort coming in and sitting down must have awakened her and caused her to glare at him, which I’m sure had been a nice sprint for his adrenal glands. I reached into the gap and pulled a protesting Lu out and took her back to the sleeping place which had been desirable just that morning, which was under the bedroom bench. She sneered at me and ran off. By the time Consort checked in after dinner to see if any of the forty work emails he answered had left responses, Lulabelle was huddled on the corner of the desk again.

Between Consort and me, someone is on the computer at least half of the time we’re home. The cat was always in her new favorite spot. For the first week, every time one of us would sit down, we’d automatically put our hand into the small space and pull out the cat. After a week, though, once it was confirmed her fur could do the machinery no harm, Consort and I gave up. It was puzzling, though; she was well beyond her usual “Moving on” date with a sleeping spot, and showed no sign of starting to sleep in, say, the shower or the soup tureen. Once, when moving her, I happened to put my hand in the spot where she slept; the external hard drive was comfortably warm and vibrated slightly.

I was charmed. I called Consort in so he could be charmed with me.

“She loves it because it reminds her of her mother!”

Consort put his hand on it. He said dryly, “Or it’s a kitty marital aid.”


I wanted to deny this outright, but the more I thought about it, the more I have been forced to consider the reality. Lulabelle spends extended periods of time with her new friend. When she finally deigns to come out, she is in a fabulous mood, purring furiously and courting my attention. This is the same cat that has usually treated us as if we were the roommates the freshman dorm arbitrarily assigned to her, and she couldn’t wait until sophomore year when she can live with the cool drama majors. I thought we were growing on her; turns out, her electrical friend puts her in such a good mood even we can’t harsh her mellow.

The good news is she can’t hurt the hard drive; the only concern is it could get too hot, and that seems to be when she gets up and leaves for a few minutes. I’m not sure the hard drive is consenting, but I am not sure it isn’t consenting. The activity in which she participates is legal in all fifty states, if for no other reason than she might be the first cat to conceive of it. This appears to be a happy and harmless activity.

But, mark my words; I’m not paying for a wedding.

Monday, November 06, 2006

Whale of a Story.

This isn’t the big topic I’m trying to wrestle to the ground, but it is something which I was reminded of today, and I thought you might find it diverting. Also, I need to see a finished blog at this point, to remind myself I know how to do that.

As I have mentioned before, I spent about two years and nearly all my good will being a talent agent. The agency I worked for was small, but prestigious; we had a few clients who win awards and critical acclaim, and quite a few clients whose face makes you stop and think, “Wasn’t he in my sister-in-law’s wedding?”

Our agency broke down the work not by client but by medium; theoretically, I handled every client, including the Academy-award winners, for my corner of the entertainment industry. Unfortunately, by the time I became an agent all the good corners were covered. Two agents covered big studio pictures and two agents covered television. What’s left? I’ll tell you what’s left; independent pictures.

Upon being hired I imagined a life of bringing exactly the right actor to the attention of a young and passionate filmmaker who would give us all a reason to go to the Sundance Film Festival the next year. In reality, my projects fell into three categories; Horrible but Financed, Wonderful and Will Never Get Financed, Horrible and To Be Shot in Bulgaria. Really, Bulgaria; at least once a month I would be reading a script about half-naked teenagers being terrorized by a cheap-looking giant red ant in a small Midwestern town which was going to look suspiciously like Sofia, Bulgaria. This movie inevitably starred someone like Morgan Fairchild, on whom they had spent their lavish cast salary. That was the other pleasure of my movies; if I was very lucky, they actually paid Screen Actor’s Guild minimum wage. Most of the time the original casting sheet would say “Salary deferred”, which meant we all were supposed to buy into the collective hallucination that a 16mm movie about a struggling writer/director in Los Angeles (played by the writer/director) and his devoted, incredibly hot, frequently naked girlfriend (to be picked after extensive auditions) was going to be picked up for distribution and then, hoo BOY, wouldn’t the money roll in!

Such was my life. Most clients passed on nearly all the scripts I covered, and I couldn’t say as I blamed them. I was just grateful I didn’t work on commission.

And then there was Dick. His name isn’t really Dick, but we’re going to call him that because I was Ishmael, and he was my great white whale. He is a terrific actor who seemed to take some profound pleasure in rarely actually acting.

This man passed on every single project I had going, even the ones which didn’t make me want to leave the script at the bottom of a lye pit. I didn’t take it too personally, because he passed on nearly every television interview as well, and even a few high-budget studio pictures. He felt strongly about only doing acting work which meant something to him and, damnit, he had created a life where he could do that. Other clients, after being out of work for a few months, would start calling, first casually and then more frantically, reminding their agents of their houses, their mortgages, their children, their ex-wives; they might have standards, but they also had the moral flexibility to do a guest-starring role on “Full House”.

Not Dick; he had broad shoulders, a full head of hair, and no outstanding debts or dependants. Casting directors would call, asking for him; I would call him to come read the script. Days later, he would come drifting by and pick up the script. Weeks later, after avoiding calls from me asking what he thought of the script, he would leave a voice-mail passing on auditioning. He would then compound my aggravation by calling the receptionist to say he would be unavailable for three weeks, as he was off to star in and haul props for a friend’s independent movie, to be shot in the desert where there was no cell-phone contact.

The whale would evade me again.

Finally, FINALLY, I got a script worth something. True, it was an independent and had no studio attached to release it, but there were actual actors signed to star in it (Many of my films starred Dolph Lundgren or, more depressingly, someone described as “The next Dolph Lundgren”). The script was funny, the director wasn’t the son-in-law of the financier and, most exciting of all, they were paying more than the union minimum wage!

I think I developed a nosebleed from excitement.

Among other parts, there was a role for Dick. I submitted his picture, and received no response which isn’t surprising, considering as how the casting director probably got 500 pictures for that one part, and there were probably forty roles to fill. I started working the phone; I whined, pleaded, flirted, begged and cajoled with anyone who picked up the phone at the casting director’s office. I think I might have propositioned the cleaning crew. But something in my cringing and whining tone worked, because I got him an interview. I threw myself into the boat and headed out to the high seas to try for Moby Dick again.

I managed to find him, get him to call me back, pick up the script and read it within a week, which was some sort of land-speed record. The good luck continued; he would read for the part! I had the whale in my sight! He read and the director fell in love with him for the part; the casting director called me within an hour to offer the role, with a salary which would actually pay for more than Ritz crackers, Tang, and a quick call home to wherever his broad-shouldered kinfolk lived.

My fingers shook when I called him. Barely able to conceal my glee, I told him he booked the job, that the money was not bad, and that he would be starting to work in two weeks.

“Yeah,” he said absentmindedly, “I forgot to tell you. I promised my friend Ace I would help him make his movie. I’m going to be in Riverside, on and off, for the next month.”

Wave goodbye to the nice whale, Ishmael.

No, he wouldn’t bail on helping his friend; that wouldn’t be honorable. Besides, it was a really cool script about speed-dealing bikers who spoke in blank verse. Half the characters in the movie would be sock puppets.

I got the phone number of the producer of his Ace’s movie, a person I suspect was also Ace’s mother. She gave me Dick’s shooting schedule (Contingent, of course, on the sock puppets being ready); I then went to the production manager of what I had come to think of as the real move and got every single day Dick would be working. They overlapped by two days. I went back and forth between the two people, trying desperately to get one to change their schedule.

It took the better part of one day, but I finally had the sock puppet producer offering to let him shoot from twelve to three a.m., and the real movie Production Manager saying he wouldn’t call Dick in to work any earlier than six hours later. It was horrible, but Dick was young enough to handle a long day in the name of art and a union gig.

I called Dick in laughing relief and a certain amount of pride and walked him through the schedule. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t him drawling, “Yeah, but if Ace needs me to help, I’m going to have to stay.”

HELP? Help WHAT? Put the other actors back in the sock drawer? I got off the phone quickly and slammed into another agent’s office for advice and counsel.

This agent, call her Medusa, had been doing this forever, and if you could catch her in a good mood, she was personable and seasoned. The other 363 days of the year, she was a wolverine with a toothache, and the scads of pot she smoked to take the edge off had made her forgetful and a touch paranoid. She also thought I used big words to make her feel stupid. I was taking my life in my hands entering her lair, but I really had no idea how to handle this vexing cetacean. I did, however, plan not to use the words “Vexing cetacean” in front of her, because there was every possibility she would stuff me in a filing cabinet.

She was talking to her dealer and motioned me to leave. I waited and bounced from foot to foot. When I made it clear I wasn’t going, she hung up and glowered at me.


After that warm welcome, I explained my problem. I think I even took out a piece of paper to show the simple brilliance of the schedule I had gotten two strangers to devise for Dick. I then finished up with his maddening reply. Medusa looked at me tiredly, which was the best possible reaction I excited in her.

“Quinn, you can’t want it more than they do.”

I stopped bouncing and twitching and froze. Her brain might have had the same chemical makeup as the air over a Phish concert, but this was the most insightful thing I had ever heard someone say. As if entranced, I walked back to my office, called the producer of the real movie and told him there were shoot dates Dick had in place that were either going to have to be worked around, or we would have to pass on the part. Somehow, they managed. Dick shot both movies.

The sock-puppet movie was never seen again. Unfortunately, neither was the real movie. A decade later, I occasionally see Dick in a movie, doing a wonderful job. I silently toast whatever fisherman caught him.

But the only things I have taken away from that period of my life are a pair of flannel pants and what Medusa said. I look at everyone dear to me, and I am desperate to fix them. Desperate. Someone starts complaining about how their pants don’t fit, or how their doctor is after them to bring down their cholesterol, or about how useless their boyfriend is, and I leap into the fray. Here’s a diet! Here’s a map of all the hikes in Los Angeles! Here’s a way to start the conversation with the useless boyfriend which will lead to him moving out and on to the futon of a friend! I’m lousy at my own problems, but other people’s problems? Whee!

And the other person says, “Yeah…” in the die-away voice which means, “I like talking about it, but I don’t dislike this situation enough to actually do something”.

Sometimes I will forget what Medusa said, and I will try to nag and pester the person into improvement, which just annoys everyone involved. And then, out of the blue, I will hear her smoke-throttled voice saying, “You can’t want it more than they do”, and I will stop mid-harangue and say something like, “If you ever want help, let me know”.

I’ve modified the credo a bit over the years. If the outcome something which affects you and the other person, you can want it as much as they do. You can even want it more, but only briefly. If two people are in something together, they each have to pull their own weight. But if it isn’t your goal, you cannot take on the responsibility for achieving the outcome.

It’s a simple and gloriously freeing idea, and I have an elusive white whale to thank for it.

Sunday, November 05, 2006

Watch this space.

I am trying to beat a large and ungainly topic into small, blog-friendly bits. It keeps getting up, dashing away, and making itself larger and more ungainly.

I will be with you in the fullness of time.