Tina Rowley

writer + (performer) + [space left open for surprises]

silver beetles

Hello, everyone. Sorry no post for so long. Dave and I went out of town for a writing retreat last weekend. WHEN IT WAS ALL SNOWY!

But frankly, after all my talk about Christmas Christmas, the Christmas spirit has sort of snuck away from me. That fucker is elusive! I'm waiting for it to come back - it must come back soon. We're running out of time. We need a tree. We're going out of town this weekend, too, so the tree will have to wait until next week. The tree should light a fire under my ass, I think.


I've been reading Bob Spitz's biography of the Beatles (not to be confused with the one Pete talked about in his blog). It's really good. When I first started reading it I kept making the joke that I wanted to find out if they got famous. Ho. Ho ho. Ha. I'm up to the point where they just discovered LSD. But the most adorable part was when Bob Dylan first introduced them to pot. Ringo was the guinea pig; he left the room with a big joint and came back and announced that the ceiling was coming down on him. He was psyched. Then everybody tried it and they were all so excited. I found it all very endearing.

I have to give Bob Spitz credit. Normally, when I read a biography, I am NOT INTERESTED in hearing more than the smallest droplet about the parents of the subjects. Blah blah blah Book of Genesis! But Bob Spitz tells the parents' stories so beautifully that I was into it. Stayed with the parents all the way.

Sorry, though, Brian Epstein. Skimmed your family history. Life is short, the book is heavy and when I read it, it crushes the baby. I have to find places to economize.

Speaking of the baby, he keeps tapping on me. Baby, you have my attention.