(A certain amount of negotiation, patient explanation and dire threats has resulted in my having a tiny stockpile of digital photos to include piecemeal in these entries. Enjoy them while they last.)

Last night the temperature dropped into the 20s for the first time this fall. It hasn't swooped back up for the day either, hovering around 40 in deceptively crisp sunshine. Autumn has arrived, and it is actually cold enough to make me think twice about one. Last. Paddle. Especially since I'd be doing it on my lonesome. Which is not so bad--you three! Don't think I don't see you. Close those harassing emails right now!--because you get to see the trees and the water and filter it all through your own perception without interference or comment. Of course, if you hit your head in the rapids you're fucked, but apart from that, quel awesome.

Also, in flexing my extreme dorkitude, I have finally gotten around to joining not one but two Eenterweb book clubs, both of which center around mystery reading. For November I'm actually going to read the selection for one of them, The Deep Blue Goodbye by John D MacDonald, mainly because having read some of his other works I know I'll have snarky things to say. For the other, I'm going to wait until December to jump into the fray with Mistletoe and Murder by Carola Dunn. In the meantime, it's nice enough to curl up with seasonal favorite The Hallowe'en Party by Agatha Christie.

Although I lately got hold of The Black Stocking by Constance and Gwyneth Little. The Little sisters wrote a series of gothic cozies (that's a technical term) in the 40s, apparently from their beds, so these are definitely ladies after my own heart. And anyway, who doesn't love a mystery featuring headless nurses in an insane asylum?

Y'know if I do get a local D20 group up and running, I could create a black hole of geek that might destroy my entire neighborhood.

Downstairs in the campus building where I work, caterers are setting out delicate morsels for the after-party of a community medical lecture. The white-walled atrium is now joined by white linen tablecloths, shiny coffee tureens and impossibly pale cheese. In the midst of the bustle, a cellist is warming up, and the low notes she's producing buzz in my hipbones, and due to some trick of acoustics, are louder when heard from the balcony overlooking the reception area. Today's lecture: "The Aging Prostate".