Babe, the Svelte Ox
This is not continued from last week. When we promised that last week's issue was to be continued, we meant it, definitely.
And we still do. That wasn't to imply we'd meant it prior to now, and now we didn't mean it. I'd understand if you thought that previous statement was us trying to weasel out of a promise.
Well, frankly, if you did, I'm just a little hurt. I mean, I thought you knew us better than that. If we were going to just drop a promised continuation of an issue we would more likely than not just not mention it. Either maliciously or just because we would. Not that I enjoy picturing the expression on my face if I were not mentioning it maliciously. I might worry about myself, should I ever see that. You know, if I got up to visit the men's room or something and happened to catch the faint residue of the expression on my face. Not pretty.
What I'm, trying to get at is that we had an unbelievably eventful week here at the Sane Magazine offices. Hell, we had a busy week at the Sane Magazine offices worldwide. The Hampton Hill office situated just outside London via a short but lovely train ride has been sold off, the proceeds of which going towards... well, going towards nothing. We had some, ehm, interests to pay off in that region. And other stuff happened. It almost rained, which, honest to God, is news in Northern California. To those of you who have visited the Sane Magazine compound in the foothills of the Santa Cruz Mountains (tours available from $19.95, which in euro or pounds sterling is virtually free!), I swear to you this is true. Even if the week you happened to visit was the one week all year it decided to rain.
People are running marathons. People are going skiing. Weddings and all that craic are being planned. Other stuff is happening.
So we just got... side tracked, I suppose. "Toughbud" will be continued, I promise, again. Just not this week.
And so.
...
And so.
Dawn broke over the plains like the yolk of an egg. A really runny egg.
It spread slowly, then more slowly, and finally, stopped.
She was sleeping. On the couch, which was just touched by a corner of the dawn, like a soppy corner of toast lying in the egg yolk that was going to get cold and really, really difficult to clean off, should it be let set. The television showed people on a couch, as well, sitting and talking animatedly. One of them held a book in his hands, and was waving it around.
They looked nothing like her.
For one, the television didn't quite do color the way it used to any more, so the people were sort of greenish. She wasn't green at all. More yellow than anything, soft yellow, with the egg yolk.
He had the brief thought that eggs might be nice. Eggs and bacon. If only bacon didn't sizzle so much when it cooked. Ah well, eggs alone it was. Again.
The funny thing was, later, when she woke up (which soppy toast doesn't do at all), well, she wasn't hard to clean off. He supposed he was biased, in a way.
He thought maybe, while he waited, and after his eggs (a portion of which he'd leave on the coffee table in front of the couch, just in case), he'd go out and cut down a few trees, stack some firewood, even though they didn't really have a fireplace.
He would say "didn't really have a fireplace" because everywhere, technically, could be a fireplace, with a misplaced match or something. It was the one thing he was fastidious about, fire. Got to have a healthy respect for fire.
Whether it was just starting or going strong. Strong like Babe, the Blue Ox.
Summary
disclaimer:
We'll see you again next week. After the annual Sane Magazine pre-Christmas skiing trip!
And we hope to have all our limbs intact and working so we can, you know, type and stuff.
You, too, take care of yourselves. Or at least have someone around to help you navigate to Sane Magazine and scroll down when you're done reading a particular bit.
Sometimes the postman will help with that sort of thing, if it's a slow day and/or the weather's not particularly nice out.
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