Well it’s late in the evening, and the music’s seeping through …

Small housekeeping note: I’m no longer posting writing-related posts to mounthelicon, nor crafts-related posts to craftybrain, because I want to uniformise (shaddup, it is too a word) the “mirrors” at all four (… for now, until GJ goes down completely) LJ-clones.

Neil Gaiman is made of awesome:

When I’m not writing the novel I feel guilty. And even though blogworthy things turn up (I could write about the thaw right now, and the sunshine and the bees; three days ago a really funny entry on what to do when your assistant hands you twenty pounds of whole and uncut cow liver for your dog that she was given at the local meat packing plant didn’t get written, and yesterday I composed an entire thing in my head I didn’t write down about Why The People in Torchwood Season One Are All Too Stupid To Live — including the astonishingly puzzling incident where someone in 1941 has written something down on paper with black ink (a medium that will last legibly for centuries if kept out of the sun), and, unaccountably worried that ink on paper will fade and become unreadable in time, first she takes a prototype Polaroid photo of it, and then writes some of it in blood and puts it in a coffee can in a damp cellar, because these media will still be readable seventy years later. Why she didn’t make a model of it out of chocolate as well, I will never know.)

Dear Mr Gaiman: Please be my BFF and come for a sleepover with Anna and I? We’ll paint our toenails and braid each other’s hair and talk about boys! It’ll be ace!

In unrelated news, I should stop looking at baby!Metallica (and baby!GnR) pictures. I have ceased believing these people were born male. I sorry, but there’s long hair, and then there’s Farrah Fawcett hair, and baby!Lars has the latter. Also, I now have a theory that Axl Rose was raised in some weird-ass commune that shunned trousers, or something, and wasn’t introduced to the very concept of them until 1992 at least. (Thong-and-chaps, kilts, tight shorts, tights-and-red-patent-leather-codpiece — anything but trousers, apparently!)

(”Why were you looking at these pictures in the first place?” I’m having a fandom relapse, okay, shaddup. DUN JUDGE MEEE!)

Crossposted from Sleepless in Scotland. Comment here or there.