I wasn't going to write anything tonight, but I just brushed my teeth and looked in the mirror. About the only time I look in the mirror these days is while brushing my teeth. I think I am going to dye my hair. Again. Not the brassy-blonde of the 80's and 90's, but something subtle. Jet black. I have this horrid white streak of hair streaking up from my cowlick near the front of my hair-line. It is streaking awful because it looks like I put it there on purpose. Sort of like a twisted Elsa Lanchester in the Bride Of Frankenstein. Isn't there a wonderful story about her husband, Charles Laughton, who was quite gay in the current meaning of the word; not the 30's meaning of the word. That was always quite confusing to me. The story (myth) is the she caught him on the living room sofa in flagrante delicto with some young chorus boy. She stormed from the room and he ran after her begging for forgiveness and asking over and over, "What can I do to make it up to you?" She replied, "Sell the couch." I love stories like that. I hope they are true. The closest I ever came to saying something lasting and unique was when I arrived at a party in Minneapolis (drunk), dropped my pants and said, "Anyone want to fuck a fancy showgirl?" I just googled that phrase and nothing came up. I'm going to work on it and see if I can use the internet to google my way to eternal fame.