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hazy, half-satisfying never-never land. That I can do, and I can do it anywhere. Unfortunately, I can do it on a plane, in a car and even in a meeting with my publisher. Consequently, I've spent most of my life viewing the world through splotchy red orbs that make me look like my eyes were painted in by a half-crazed surrealist. |
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At any rate, there I was, five o'clock in the morning, wide awake, peering out of bloodshot eyes at a hint of the dawn and wishing I could go back to sleep. |
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Nevertheless, I hauled my aging frame out of the rack and staggered to the window for the ritualistic early morning appraisal of the new day. Something had happened during the course of the night. The new dawn was gray and brooding and somber; the bay was angry and busy with whitecaps. The sky was painted with streaks of polluted orange laced with slate gray streaks of clouds trailing back to the still dark western horizon. Fracto stratus, I mumbled to myselfand even though those weather bureau days were some 25 years in my checkered past, the definition of the clouds was still a portend of rain. |
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Nothing would delight me more than to paint you a bright, cheery portrait of one Elliott Grant Wages that bounced out of bed, smiled at the world, slipped into a pair of designer sweats and jocked it up for 30 minutes before sitting down to a bowl of |
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