We were watching old Loretta Young flicks on TCM, one after the other, all these ancient pre-Code things where she was so gorgeous and lithe and could wear a gown that clung to her in ways that must have run the most perverse thoughts through Victorian censors’ minds till they quivered and dreamed and ordered whole scenes cut for the good of humanity. A friend called, I mentioned Loretta Young and he mentioned that her kid–the real kid, not the one she is invariably stuck with in every one of these movies–was in Moby Grape. One of the non-crazy members. He talked about seeing Moby Grape many times on the Strip when he was a kid, 18 years old or so, coming over the hill and seeing all these wonderful bands from here or San Francisco or England and dropping mindfuck LSD. I went back to watching Loretta–she was playing piano now, and Louis Calhern was such a cad–and I slipped under a blanket, had a beer, and drifted off, waking with a start ten minutes ago, at 5:30 in the morning, when the pigs need slopping and reality needs facing and I gave my Mayer piece one last look, cleaned up some typos, and changed Jon Mayer’s first to Jon Mayer’s face like it was supposed to be and even considered adding a period but didn’t but this sentence here certainly needs one now.

Off to bed.