where the writers are
Day 204: Macresarf1's Year of the Apocalypse 2012 -- A Gathering of My Clan.

We slept even later today, in the pleasant quarters of the Civic Center Holiday Inn.  We must have needed rest and relaxation after the welcome news that we were going to be extended here until Thursday morning while details are worked out for a temporary let in a retirement hotel near  our old place. [Paradoxically, I inadvertently set off a flareup in Guy's condition, which may have exhausted us both.]  Anyway, I was taking my shower at 2 p.m.  

   While working on Emails, Wayne the K. phoned to say that he would be along in half an hour or so with his handy hip flask of Talisker and several surprises.

   Guy and William (our semi-permanent visitor) had gone out to replenish our money supply and buy food.  They had been back a short time, and we were eating, when Wayne arrived.  He made us gin and tonics, produced a bag of pistachio nuts and two DVD's:  Guy Hamilton's THE BATTLE OF BRITAIN and  Joseph Strick's production of Jean Genet's THE BALCONY.  After sharing our good news about our new living prospects, we began to watch THE BATTLE OF BRITAIN, a favorite of Wayne's, eating and drinking, when a few minutes in, Son Jason appeared.  Presently, William's girlfriend, Angel,  also made a brief appearance.  Then, the rest of us happily watched the rest of the two hour-fifteen minute picture.

  Wayne and Jason have left; everyone else has gone to sleep but me.

  SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE: America's bloody Batman Theater Massacre weekend also marks the aniversary of Norway's much more murderous terrorist attack.  On July 22, 2011, Anders Behring Breivik, a fascist fanatic, set off an explosive charge at a government building in the center of Oslo, killing eight people.  Shortly after, he sailed to nearby Utoeya island, a summer camp where the ruling Labour Party's young were hosting a party.  He proceeded to hunt down and shoot to death 69 more individuals.

  Had you remembered?

  And . . . oh . . . one of our greatest gadflys, Scots-born, Irish-raised Alexander Cockburn, died of cancer at the age of 61.  In the Apocalypse, we could have used him.

  Macresarf1 would write no more this day.