I think I’m a wee bit hung over. It wasn’t the exact quantity of alcohol as much as the mix for me. At the end of the evening, Papa Loup shared his 1932 bottle of cognac with me and the family men. I felt so honored and so tempted by the delicious aroma of the aged liquor that I indulged a small glass. It might have done me in. Or maybe this is a blood sugar thing. I didn’t eat properly last night at all.

After the birthday celebration, we saw The Prestige — a very clever movie that somehow failed to capture my heart and imagination for reasons I don’t completely understand yet. I did however get to see Hugh Jackman without a shirt, and that’s something.

I admit I’ve been obsessing a bit on Eragon because of that craptastically enormous movie poster on our street. It seems that publishing is all about marketing and what’s worse is the public buys it. They’ve apparently choked down large quantities of recycled Anne McCaffrey and George Lucas all because of the marketing angle: the age of the writer. I can understand the older writers like McCaffrey not wanting to discourage the boy from writing, hence her supportive rather than litigative words. But come on, folks. When grownups do it, it’s called plagiarism or, at best, hack writing.

Maybe the best thing to do is sucker punch the public with a Blair Witch. Is that how one makes a career? Apparently it’s a viable route — as long as you’re smarter about it than James Frey. I suspect that’s why this gal keeps her identity secret. Smart girl, that “Belle.” But gimmicks give me hives, so I think I’ll pass.

After some writing, I’m off to Parisian fetish shops today.