Tuesday, June 10, 2003

June 10, 2003
Had a marathon day yesterday. Kathy and I got up at 3:30 AM to take the kids to the airport. Got to Sky Harbor at five, dropped kids off at gate (they are both going to New York to work for the summer), then Kathy and I took the scenic drive home, up Central Avenue. Beautiful drive, old houses, mansions really, tree lined streets, classic old school Arizona. Stopped in Paradise Valley at Rolberto’s for breakfast ($7.50 cash), then came home, finished a painting of Billy as a floating corpse.

Got into office at 8:30. Place humming with action as Robert Ray, Abby, Gus, Meghan, R.G. and I scrambled to redo the editorial, the contents page, the cover and the Digging Up Billy piece. Jana called several times with corrections or additions to the story (they’re going to dig up another guy in Prescott!). Gus designed two covers, incorporating the bullfighter-boxing motif decks I have been wanting. Made a decision on which cover to go with. We had a traditional cover and a scary one. We chose the scary one. PDF’d it to Daniel at about two. Here's part of the scratchhoard image of Billy rotting away.

Wrote a sidebar to finish out the Billy Dig, rewrote my editorial, shoe-horned it all in. Re-vamped Pancho layout with new head and tweaked copy with bullets (thankyou Robert Ray!).

Came home at two for lunch. Went back at three, Abby massaged Billy Dig layout, finished around four, Robert Ray took the whole mess to Fed Ex. Amazing feat by all involved. Mike Melrose had a funny line. As we were wrapping it all up he said, “I’m just glad it’s not sales holding up the magazine.” Funny, because if it was we would be steamed and looking for someone’s head, probably Mike’s. But since it’s editorial it’s righteous and somehow worthy of praise. Interesting dichotomy between sales and editorial.

Got a massage at four. Went from there to El Encanto to meet two old Tucson buddies, Carl Cole and Charlie Christie. I played in a band with Charlie (Fay Shaw and the Generation) and I lived one summer at Carl’s house. Many tales from several lost summers (1967-69), when we all lived at a ramshackle house we called affectionately “North Dodge Garage.” The co-ed strip poker games where a certain future publisher (not me) lost the final hand and had to take off his underpants. The time the cops surrounded the house to literally take down four miscreants off the roof (that was me). And other tales of sin and debauchery that my kids would love to hear about but never will.

Got home at 9:30, bone tired but happy.

“What child knows the true life of their parents? Only the ones with a parent stupid enough to keep a blogger journal.”

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