I just hung up the phone from a conference call with Barry Manilow, Brian Boitano, and Dorothy Hamill.*
Yes, this is completely true. Don't all line up to touch me at once. The glow should last a while.
I love my new job.
Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarry!
* Weird footnote: If you do a search on Google Images for "brian boitano barry manilow," you wind up with this picture of Bill Cosby in the first page of results. Can any of my Google buddies tell me which part of the algorithm made that choice?
I'm back! And I have the color half of my photos developed. There's one black-and-white frame left to shoot in roll #2, and damned if I won't find a way to use it.
While you wait for me to finish being obsessive about scanning and posting, here's a musical interlude. Some clever Wesleyanites put together this hilarious tune. Warning: It's rated PG-13 and probably only funny if you went to college there. But if you did, it's really, really funny.
Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I lived in Butterfield B (aka The Butts), Hewitt 10 (on Foss Hill), high-rise, and 32 Brainerd—and I spent quality time in the squash courts. If you get through the whole song, you'll understand.
Off to the homestead for my annual fall visit! If you need me, I'll be frolicking in a big pile of leaves on Rte. 47 for a couple of weeks.
I might post from the East Coast office, aka my middle-school bedroom that my mom claims to have finally made into a guest room, despite all the poster holes in the walls and those goofy glow stars all over the ceiling . . . or I may take a li'l break from computering. We'll see if my willpower holds out.
In the meantime, please enjoy these photos of my crash course in ultimate at Golden Gate Park. No, I didn't play—I'm pretty much frisbee-challenged—but it was a kick watching k2 and his crew do their thing.
Autumnally,
The BCB
My brother has great taste, mostly—except for when he called me up a few years ago, almost crying with laughter, to tell me how many times he'd seen Old School. It was an embarrassing number of times. I'd already seen it, thought it was OK for a guy flick, and forgotten about it.
No, no, he said. Funniest movie ever made. Watch it again. Um, no. My list of more interesting ways to spend two hours is endless.
But tonight I succumbed to a post-nacho coma at Alyssa and Jasper's house, and they put on Old School. And you know? It's actually kind of hilarious.
I only made it through about 45 minutes before sleep seemed like a better plan, but I still think Avi deserves a shout-out for knowing—like big bros always do—the score.
Walking to the subway from work last night time-warped me to childhood. The air was heavy—legitimately humid, East Coast naysayers—too thick for any kind of jacket. There was a slight breeze with no coolness to it. Just about the opposite of normal San Francisco.
It was 7 p.m., the sun was setting, and it felt exactly like every Massachusetts summer when all I wanted to do was lie in front of a fan and die. Until the heat broke and the warm rain made Indian Hill into a makeshift water park.
Tonight, the same walk at the same hour was cold and gray, with a sharp, lifting wind. Short sleeves didn't cut it, leather didn't cut it, I made a meal of my hair, and the last block to BART felt like a football field. Dry leaves crinkling across my path.
It's not that we don't have seasons here. They're just fickle, so you never have the time or will to master them. But there's also no real need to try.
