Last night Max and I went to see The Pillowman, a play at The ACT Theatre. It’s an interesting examination of the responsibility of the artist for his art. What I mean is: if I write about, say, piercing, and someone reads it and then sticks needles in themself, or someone else, what responsibility do I have for that? It's easy to say, "Why, none whatsoever." But is that really always true?
The performances by the actors were good, but the playwright painted his points in rather broad strokes. And it could have been thirty minutes shorter without sacrificing anything important. Definitely a bit self-indulgent.

Nothing like having a word count to keep one’s writing tight – it’s good discipline. Here’s the latest column and calendar.

Postscript: I just heard that Jan Lyon, one of the founders of the National Leather Association, died recently. I'm sorry to hear that. I haven't seen Jan in years, but once, oh, a very long time ago, when I was living in Tampa, she and I hooked up through the NLA newsletter (yes, the kind that came in the snail mail, this was pre-internet) and had....an intimate evening together. She was just in town for one night, and I didn't run into her again for a long time. But the baby kinkster that I was had a lot of fun with her. Godspeed, Jan.