shaken & stirred

welcome to my martini glass


life is forever being life

An unprecedented number of entries today, including our Tour update from the slightly obsessed but highly entertaining Mr. Rowe. I have to admit, the bicycle racing, it grows on you. There are lots of those choking up, oh my god this is someone's whole life's work, oh my god did you see that, oh my god look at his face he's in so much pain moments. Of course, it's better if there's someone nearby to explain to you when those moments are and what they mean. Something anyone can enjoy about the Tour are the fucking insane fans lining the streets and the unbelievable shiny motorcade stretching on to infinity behind the peleton (main pack of bikers) and the things spelled out giant-size for the helicopters to catch at break-time. Such as grass mowed to spell a giant "100 Years of the Tour de France" (in French, of course) or, last year, people's tiny, slanty Euro-cars spelling out Tour de France. There are people in costumes more appropriate for Mardi Gras.

Anyway, this wasn't even what I was going to write about.

Lots to think about today. My Grandmother Summers came out her surgery fine, though she's in a good deal of pain now and raving through the morphine even. My Grandmother Bond regaled me with stories about the fine art of late-in-life dating (she was positively glowing and is amazingly coy and studied about the whole business) while we waited together in the hospital room. The ghost of my Grandpa Summers felt very near the whole day.

And then, of course, skimming through the headlines, there's this, which always makes me sad. It takes me back to being 13 and having my brother kidnapped in a similar situation, that I won't say too much more about because I still don't feel exactly safe talking about that on the internet. It's easy to forget that whatever goes out here, anyone can see. I'm just glad it was stopped before anyone got hurt.

Anyway, anyway, anyway...

Alez, alez, alez!

We went out and had wine and beer and dinner at our local dive/good pub and Japanese food bar because despite all this, and despite the more subdued celebration and despite the fact that this is the first mention:

It's Gwenda-gras. The annual lead up that refuses to culminate in a sucky birthday on the day of me and Julius Caesar and Thoreau and Tod Browning.

Have a margarita on me, lots of salt and try to stop thinking so much.


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