One night while preparing to slave over a book proposal (if you look down the right side of the page, you’ll see a new link to a different kind of book club), I decided to pour a glass of 2007 7 Deadly Zins. I had also recently sunk my teeth into the 2007 St. Francis Old Vines Zinfandel and felt like having some of that jammy, luscious goodness at a slightly lower price point. Most of my Trader Joe’s wine was gone and my palate enjoyed recovering with some big and structured, not weak and nondescript. So more Zin. Well, as I plopped down on my ergonomic enhancement brightly colored Ikea cushion, an errant hand flew into the globe and most of the Zin drowned the keyboard, and poured like an inky waterfall under the monitor, across the glass desktop (easy to clean), down the white wall into the white landlord carpet. Wads of paper towels later, the writing mood had evaporated and the room smelled like a boot. I drank a full glass of the 7 Deadly well away from the keyboard, and felt a little crabby (Sis is improving and Mom is now receiving hospice care which may explain explain some of the crabby). Some extra cash had arrived thanks to the Princeton Record Exchange people’s love of my small collection of 45s and flexidiscs I had sold them. I took the wounded keyboard — it had dried out but was spewing at least four characters for each keystroke like it was still drunk — to a local computer wizard. The Wizard was blunt. Keyboards do not get resuscitated. You buy new ones, he said, and sent me off to Micro Center. I am typing this on a lovely, responsive keyboard in Raiders’ colors (I am doomed to love that football team for life). I also raised up my monitor and finished cleaning up the wine so the office no longer smells like boots. I have been working away like a fiend on the proposal and hope to share some of the writing here on a separate page. In the meantime, I’ll be headed to New Orleans next week for the Association of Food Journalists conference. I’ll post more once I recover from what the city has to offer.