My sister blew into town last week for my birthday (she’s the taller, blonder one) and we did much walking around LA, particularly from one happy hour to the next. That’s the Edison behind us, which was not my favorite of the downtown bars we visited, but which did have the cheapest drinks — early on Thursdays, you can get the house cocktail for 35 cents.
In non-birthday, non-drinking news, I talked to the Irish Independent (more on authors coming back from the grave) and to the Guardian again, this time about the former husband of Elizabeth Eat Pray Love Gilbert getting a book deal for his story about finding himself after the end of their relationship. I do wish his story was something like whoring and brawling and turning into a slovenly, porn-watching bachelor, but it sounds like he traveled the world to find his spiritual center. Ah well.
I turned in a book review at the LA Times. I’m building a website for a literary agent. I went to the Getty last week — not to work, which I often do — but to eat and drink like a Roman.
