“The book American Gods wishes it was.” --Despina Durand

Friday, June 17, 2011


Household archaeology unearthed a box of art from our overloaded, walk-in closet. There was also an old sketchbook in it, with an interesting first page:

I don't know what day it is. Me & Em are in love, in Mexico City – that futuristic metropolis built on ancient foundations that exhales magic realism in its smog: A fire-eater entertains motorists at a busy intersection . . . live, if seemingly zombified rattlesnakes are part of a street-show for “natural healing”. . . across the street from our hotel a show of fantastic artists appears overnight . . . a painted vampire seals a a broken window . . . and then, across the street from Las Galaxias (a strip joint) is the incredible Hotel Ixtaban, a facade without a building, decorated with nude goddess statues, no signs of life, but at night the sputtering neon sign somehow goes on . . .

Later, I would go on to write Cortez on Jupiter, High Aztech, and Smoking Mirror Blues. I also married Em. People ask why I'm smiling.

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