Suzy Says

Maybe I am just overly sensitive about advertising these days, but I really think movie theaters are no place for commercials. Trailers for upcoming movies — fine; even the dancing concession food ads (though I will never understand the whole concept of food that wants to be eaten) make sense, since that’s what actually makes money for the theaters, not the movies themselves. Also the usual “Let’s all go to the lobby” one is blessedly short. But yesterday, when Rufus and I went to see “Hearts in Atlantis” at the nice old neighborhood movie theater, there was an ad before the trailers for…courtesy.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for courtesy and think the world a far too impolite place most of the time. But: 1. I hate ads for things you can’t buy (like politeness) or things in a sweeping generality (cotton, the fabric of your life). What is the point of these? Does anyone know?

2. The courtesy example they gave had a guy carrying a bunch of stuff opening a door for an older woman who was also carrying stuff, but less than he had. In doing so, he dropped his stuff. This has nothing to do with anything that ever happens at the movies, since patrons rarely, if ever, show up with more bags and boxes than they can comfortably tote around, and essentially it suggested to me that the guy really got nothing out of opening the door since he dropped his stuff and looked stupid. Surely they could have come up with a better example, like a guy actually giving up his seat on a crowded bus to an older or pregnant woman. This happens all too rarely, and I have often been the one who gives up my seat while the men just sit there.

3. I don’t go to the movies to be chided. I have paid for my ticket, bought really expensive popcorn, etc., in the vain hope of helping to keep the one independent theater in my neighborhood operating in the face of the ever-encroaching mondo-plexes, and what I am really looking for is diversion and amusement, not moral lessons. Also I think I’m pretty damn courteous anyway.

So lay off the commercials at the movies and just let us watch the show. And while you’re at it, try not to make trailers that are longer than, say, 2 minutes, show everything that happens in the whole movie and/or important plot points. Pretty please?

I had some of the gingerbread from my junkie shopping spree with my customary cup of black coffee this morning. Breakfast of champions! Jack, of course, helped me clear the crumbs off my plate. I usually have toast instead of gingerbread for breakfast, and I save a little piece of toast for Jack every morning. So after she has eaten her own breakfast, she has some of mine, too.

Salon really annoyed me this morning. I clicked on the link to a story, and instead of the story, there’s a full-screen ad for Sprint or something. In the upper right hand corner is another link saying, “Click here to read story.” Now, this something that should be nipped in the bud immediately. When you click on a link for a story, you should be able to read the damn story, not an ad for some stupid thing you don’t want anyway. I guess our friends at Salon figured it would make a change from nagging us to buy Salon Premium.

So we all had to go out to lunch together at work. I hate enforced socializing with work people, especially when they make it sound like it’s a big treat and we all know it’s not. The Big Boss was in town and it was his genius idea to have the lunch. You may remember his earlier appearance in my blog. I can assure you that he still only has one topic of conversation (Himself, and I do mean with a capital H), and is still a visible Nicorette addict.

He also managed to find a bad Chinese restaurant in a city famous for its Chinatown. Chinese food is not among my favorites — I don’t hate it, but if I could never eat it again for the rest of my life, I wouldn’t care, either — but this was really bad. The menu was scary and perhaps this is what real, authentic Chinese food is, because it featured lots of tripe, chicken feet, and pigs’ feet. I’m just too damn white to eat any kind of feet. That is desperation food, if you ask me. So I got “seasonal vegetables and rice”, which turned out to be strange wilted green things in a pallid, yellowish sauce over rice. The rice was OK and there were some nice bits of ginger, but otherwise, it was REALLY GROSS. I think I have now been too traumatized to eat Chinese food again for several months, and possibly years.

Possibly due to this food trauma, I shopped like a junkie on the way home. Does that ever happen to you? You’re at the checkout unloading your basket and you suddenly realize what a very strange assortment of food you have collected. While I did get reasonable things like earth-friendly laundry soap and sugar-free jam, I also got: cashews; gingerbread; gorgeous gourmet cheese straws; positively ancient Cheddar; and dark chocolate coconut candies. And no, it’s not PMS or M related, it just happened, as Forrest Gump would say, for no particular reason.

Drinking Le Village Sparkling French Lemonade from a glass much like this bought on a trip to Mexico reminded me of Becky. I guess it was really Becky in reverse, though (the anti-Becky?). To be really Becky, it would have to be a Margarita in a S?vres porcelain cup!

And speaking of sparkling French beverages, why don’t we have Orangina Rouge in the US? It’s made with blood oranges and it’s delicious. I probably drank a gallon of it when I was in Paris last Christmas.

You can get Le Village lemonade at a wonderful place in my neighborhood called La Boulange de Polk (shouldn’t it be La Boulangerie, though?). It is always packed, and here’s why: you can get bread and croissants there that taste like they do in Paris. Not to mention delights like tartine, canel?s de Bordeaux, and of course, the Proustian madeleine. The place seems to be a magnet for every French expatriate in the city, and most of the staff is also French. At least half the conversations you overhear while waiting in the long, Poil?ne type line snaking out the door are in French. A little bit of Paris, right in my neighborhood! It will have to do until my next trip to France.

We had quite a thunderstorm last night. It started up before I went to sleep, and according to Rufus, it was going strong for quite some time afterwards. I’m afraid of thunderstorms, so I’m glad that I not only live where they don’t happen very often, but that I was able to sleep through this one.

Rufus, on the other hand, stayed awake reading while the lights flickered, hoping the power wouldn’t go out, since if it did, we would miss the premiere of “Angel”, among other things. Fortunately it didn’t actually go out and everything taped OK. The storm just had fun playing with us for a while.

When I was a kid, we used to go to Maine every summer. Dad worked at a marine biology lab and the lab gave us a cottage to stay in for the summer. It was made of pine boards and had a big deck looking over a lake. We used to get really scary thunderstorms there. Once, lightning split a tree in half right outside our door. Another time, lightning actually came out of some of the electrical outlets! So when it stormed at night in Maine, we kids would all pile into our parents’ bed and Dad would tell us stories until the storm went away or we fell asleep, whichever came first.

That was a long time ago, but it’s still nice to sleep through a thunderstorm, feeling safe because nothing bad can ever happen if Dad or Rufus is there.

I live a sports-free life. That’s right, neither Rufus nor I has the slightest interest in sports. Not for me the sorrow and rejection of the girl left at home on the weekend while her husband is out, usually with “the guys”, trying to get a ball of varying size into a hole or net of some kind. The Super Bowl means nothing to me. Most years I have no idea who is even playing. In fact, I personally feel that all sports should be pay per view rather than interrupting regularly scheduled TV shows. If you want to watch them — and this applies especially to the blasted Olympics, which seems to be on every time you turn around instead of every four years like it’s supposed to be — you can pay to watch them and I’ll watch “Angel” instead, thank you very much.

All of which makes it amazing that we watched “61*”. Even more amazing, we just loved it. You can tell that this was a true labor of love for director Billy Crystal, a life-long Yankees fan. This is the story of Roger Maris, who broke Babe Ruth’s home run record after more than 30 years (Maris’ own record, asterisk and all, would stand for more than 30 years, too) and his friend and teammate Mickey Mantle. It is a wonderful and heart-breaking story, told with the cooperation and assistance of both the Maris and Mantle families, but showing these two players as the men they were rather than painting them as heroes. Stand-out performances by Barry Pepper (“The Green Mile”) and Thomas Jane (“Boogie Nights”), who both look and talk so much like their real-life counterparts that it’s almost scary.

I’m trying to focus on the good things in my life today. I think I’m getting too bogged down in all the sadness in my world and the wide world, and you know I can’t control or fix any of it. So I’m thinking about good things, like the following:

Last month in London, all my family was together for the first time in more than a decade. Being with everyone, even on such a sad occasion, was so comforting. There was nothing but love and support, and I’m so glad we have each other, in our time of sorrow and for the rest of our lives.

Also on this trip to London, I finally got to meet my cousin Les and his wonderful wife, Nadine. Les and I are distant cousins — our great-grandfathers or possibly even greater grandfathers were brothers. Les is one of the most faithful readers of my blog — Nadine told me that when he comes home from work, he gets a cup of tea and reads it, every day! — and we have been emailing each other for a while. When we met, it was as if we had always known each other. The day we spent together at Kew Gardens (in spite of the rain!) was the happiest of this visit. Les and Nadine are so happy with each other that it rubs off on you just being with them.

My good friend Paul became a grandfather for the first time in August. Paul is a Vietnam vet and professional cook — he cooks for the rich and/or famous in the Hamptons from May through October each year — and all-around great guy. His only child Lisa and her husband (I can’t remember his name even though we had Thanksgiving with them last year. It might be Chris, though. I do remember that he is: a. very cute; and 2. a roadie for the Red Hot Chili Peppers) presented him with beautiful little baby Grace, born in Los Angeles on August 31. Paul’s heading out here this weekend to meet Grace for the very first time.

My co-worker C gave birth to her first child on August 14, a lovely little girl named Hannah Elizabeth. C had just about the easiest delivery I have ever heard of: she slept through three hours of labor and only had to push for fifteen MINUTES. Hannah was ready to make her debut, and nothing was going to stop her, even the fact that the doctor wasn’t there. So Hannah was caught by her tall, Texan daddy instead. You can’t tell a Hannah what to do!

My sister Megan started a new job this week. Megan has been a pre-school teacher for years, and it’s a vocation for her, but since she was in England for most of August and into the early part of September, all the teaching jobs in her neighborhood were filled by the time she got home. So she applied for a veterinarian clinician job, and got it. She does some reception work, walks the dogs who are boarded there while their owners are on vacation, and assists in surgery. She loves the surgical part, and when the vet saw she was: not fainting; not throwing up; and actually interested, he started to explain everything as he went along. Meg used to help our father in the lab when she was a kid, so it’s not exactly new to her. She has been calling me every night when she gets home to tell me about her day. I have never heard her so excited about a job. Maybe it’s the beginning of a whole new career for her.

So these are all happy things. Nice to think of beginnings instead of endings!

Why doesn’t snoring wake up the person who’s doing the snoring? I mean, it’s right by their ears and you’d think it would be louder there at the epicenter than just in the neighborhood. But it never does as far as I can tell.

And why can I always sleep when the alarm goes off, even if I have been awake for hours at other times during the night? Maybe if I set my alarm for 1 a.m. or something I’ll be able to go back to sleep. I can get to sleep OK, I just can’t stay there.

When Buddy was still alive, he used to sleep on my pillow every night. When I was ready to go to bed, I’d say, “It’s sleep time”, and Buddy would pad majestically into the bedroom and jump up on my pillow. So I’d fall asleep listening to his deep, rumbling purr. If I woke up in the night, I’d just cuddle up to his soft fur and listen to him purring and I’d go right back to sleep.

But Buddy is gone and so is my father. The world has gone crazy, and it’s no wonder I can’t sleep. My world is a mess because of Dad’s sudden death. I hadn’t even begun to cope with that when last Tuesday’s disaster hit, so the entire country and in fact the entire civilized world is now a strange and frightening place. In addition, two of our consultants have quit in the past month and one is on maternity leave, so things are weird and chaotic at work too. No peace to be found anywhere. The really amazing thing is that only last month, in the beginning of August, we were fully staffed at work, the World Trade Center Towers were still standing, and my Dad was going to cricket matches and gardening. All that was swept away forever in the space of a few short weeks.

Here’s my goal for 2002: a completely uneventful year. In particular, I’d like the Reaper to leave me the hell alone for at least one year. He’s been an annoyingly faithful visitor over the past three years, and I think it’s about time he picked on someone else for a change.

Rufus and I were both encouraged to see all the flags flying in our neighborhood today. Nearly every shop and restaurant on Union Street has one or more on display. One of the most touching was one hand-made by a child, Magic Marker on a sheet of construction paper. We have one flying from our balcony, and though it can’t be seen from the street, it can be seen from the neighboring buildings. I hope whoever is responsible for this knows that this country, the spirit of its people, and all it stands for remain and always will be unbroken and unbowed.

I think that Tuesday’s disaster was something in the nature of the Apple of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden. We’ve always been naked, we just didn’t realize it. The question now is how to cover ourselves.

So our upstairs neighbor decided that last night was a good time to have a party — the day after Tuesday’s disasters. Dancing, loud music, glasses clinking, yells of “Woo!”, laughter…all the classic signs of a party. You would think she would have the decency to postpone the party. And how anyone could celebrate anything yesterday is beyond me.

I still can’t believe I had to work yesterday, too. Not only that, most people at my firm were acting like nothing happened. The only gesture they made was to cancel the company picnic on Saturday. I think it’s an insult to all the victims of the disaster and their families to act like it was any other day. I believe we needed to take the day after this catastrophic event to think through the events, talk about it with our loved ones, for parents to explain it to their children and try to reassure them, to pray or whatever else one needs to go on after something like this. And to show respect for those who were murdered, their families, and the rescue workers who perished in the line of duty.

In case you think me even more frivolous and shallow than I really am…I posted the entry below before I heard of the terrorist attacks today.

Rufus and I are home safe and sound with our cats, having been sent home from work in fear that San Francisco may be a target, too. Being in the Financial District and only blocks from federal buildings like the INS didn’t seem a good idea.

Like the rest of the world, we are staring at the news footage and trying to make sense of it all. Our thoughts are with the victims and their families, now mourning their tragic, senseless loss. This is beyond belief.

Clearly, the geniuses at the CIA who came up with the idea of training cats and wiring them with transmitters to act as spies never actually owned a cat, or even knew one very well. Rule Number One of cats is: you can never tell them what to do. You may be able to persuade them not to claw the furniture or eat the house plants, but that’s about the extent of behavior modification for the cats. The cats end up training you. And, since you are the one feeding them and cleaning up the litter boxes, it’s pretty obvious who’s in charge.

I can’t understand why the powers that be at Avenal State Prison were so perturbed by prisoners feeding and caring for feral cats near the prison. If you can’t train cats to be spies, you probably can’t train them to help inmates break out of a high security prison. And they have nowhere to conceal any weapons. It’s generally thought that having a pet — or even caring for semi-wild animals like these — has a positive effect on people, making them happier and gentler. So you would think the prison authorities would be glad to see these tough guys giving a damn about something other than themselves. If they can have cable TV and work out all day so they are strong enough to possibly beat up their guards, why such a fuss about some cats? I guess even prisons have No Pets rules.

I’m back. Rufus had such a good time filling in for me while I was away that we decided to have a dual blog on my return. Thanks to Candi for setting it up (and having the idea in the first place).

As you know, I just hate flying, and I had two 11 hour flights in 10 days (that’s how long it takes to fly non-stop to London from San Francisco). Non-stop. Gah. I have to say that being overwhelmed with grief (and having my brother with me) did somewhat take my mind off the possibility of the plane crashing. Also I have never gotten through Customs at Heathrow as fast as we did after Jonathan answered the officer’s routine question of “Your purpose in visiting England?” by looking him straight in the eye and saying, “Our Dad died.” The guy didn’t know what to say — he just stamped our passports and were outta there.

Here is Suzy’s guide to surviving air travel:

1. Avoid going coach if at all possible. Somehow I feel less likely to die when I have more legroom and am being pampered. You also get something close to real food and get to get off the plane first. Negative: If the plane crashes nose first, you’ll get a few less seconds than the poor folks in cattle class. Of course, you could look at it as the express lane to the afterlife.

2. Drink as much champagne as possible. If you have avoided going coach, the champagne is free, so you have no excuse not to drink it. You also get a glass before you take off, which is when you really need it. Both the likelihood of the plane crashing and the fear of it are severely diminished by at least two glasses of champagne. Negative: You will have to pee a lot. So get an aisle seat.

3. Try and get a Valium or two. You probably know someone who has it. Think of all those neurotic friends and relatives, not to mention co-workers. Make something up if you have to so they feel sorry enough for you to give it to you. Who cares if they think you’re neurotic? They’re the ones with a whole prescription, for God’s sake. It’s worth the trouble to get some — it really does take the edge off the horror.

4. Diversion is critical. Bring lots of things to read. I usually hoard “New Yorkers” for about a month and bring at least two books. It amazes me that people will get on a plane knowing the flight is 11 hours long with NOTHING TO READ. The in-flight magazine is not that interesting. Trust me.

This entry is brought to you by our friends the parentheses. (Couldn’t have done it without you!)

Cat Update:

Just before I turned out the light last night Cleo had to play. Specifically, she wanted some me jerky, and figured a good chew on my hand would fit the bill. We play like this a lot, ever since she has decided that the small table on my side of the bed is hers as much as mine. She guards it, and then we play, with her snapping and swatting at my hand. If I?m quick and miss all her attacks, she gets pissed-off and determined to get me. Her eyes get huge, and her ears fold back, making her look like an evil ball. When she is in ballhead mode she keeps coming back on the offensive, and sometimes I?ll just hold my hand out, let her give it ?take-that-ya-big-naked-ape? kind of bite, and then we can both go to sleep? and many nights just after this kind of battle, as soon as the light is out she?ll curl up in my armpit as I drift off to sleep.

Things That Still Piss Me Off After All These Years #92:

This is gonna be like carbon-dating me, but when I was in high school, I once blew off some French homework to watch a new episode of Charlie?s Angels. The next day the teacher is checking to see if everyone got their stuff done and when I say I didn?t she says, ?Too much Charlie?s Angels last night, hmmm?? What a burn, right in front of the whole class. The funny thing is though, since then, I?ve learned more of my really bad French from TV and movies than from formal education. Hey, maybe I can pick up some Spanish the same way- what are you laughing at, pendejo?

Women Are Strange #444:

Is it just me, or do you not wonder how any women ever found Fabio cute? I think if his current employer wanted to do a more believable TV ad, they would show Marlon Brando playing back-door bandito and grinning over Fabio?s shoulder as hairboy sighs and says, well, you know.

Random Notes:

Do you think that babies lie back and think, ?What is your fucking problem?? when grown-ups get right in their faces and make baby-talk?

Gutman strikes again. The fat fuck calls from home at 6am this morning, asking if anything is going on (and didn?t show until 6:40). No ?I?m on my way,? or ?I?m running late,? or even an ?I?m at home,? although I can hear his TV blasting in the background. Then he hangs up without saying goodbye, something that Suzy and I both find extremely irritating. What, was this bloated bastard raised in a box with no human contact? The guy can?t even chat for a minute without talking about the dick-licking stock market. He?s like some new breed of humanity, 100% personality free. And that makes him a perfect match for my boss. When talking, my boss takes long annoying pauses in the middle of sentences, and often restarts sentences. Gutman stutters and pauses like he?s having some kind of acid flashbacks. Conversations between the two are enough to make you commit self-defenestration.

Sample Conversation Between Psychoboss & Gutman

Psychoboss: I think we should- we should- I think we- we have to- something we have to do is- what we have to do is-

Gutman: Yu-yu-yu-yu-yu-you think? tha-tha-tha-tha-that- we? uhhhh? we should?

Psychoboss: We have to- have to- we absolutely have to- what we oughtta be doing is- here?s what we have to do-

Gutman: Suh-suh-suh-so? we shu-shu-shu-shu-should? st-st-st-start do-do-do-do-doing?

Psychoboss: Yeah we- because if the- if the- if there ever comes a time that the- if we get caught by the- if we don?t do it and are found out-

Gutman: Uh-huh? uh-huh? uh-uh-uh-huh? I? I? I?

Psychoboss: That?s- it?s- we- you- they- the- our- if- it- it- it-

Gutman: Uh?ih?ah?guh?pah?ur?

?you get the idea.

Final Question:

Has any line from any film ever had the depth or significance of this enlightening exchange, between goofy hero Jack Burton and the ancient, evil David Lo Pan, from ?Big Trouble in Little China??

-Jack: ?I don?t get it.?

-Lo Pan: ?You were not put on this earth to ?get it,? Mr. Burton!?

Also, I can really understand where the 2000 year-old villain is coming from when he yells, ?This really pisses me off to no end!?

-Rufus

Cat Update:

Not much new. Ever since Suzy came back we?ve had everyone on the bed for long periods of time. Very cozy. Jack was being Ms. Cool yesterday morning. After I had my bath, and the water was still draining out of the tub, she was showing off, walking around the edge of the tub, and fell in. I was able to grab her before she ran off and got water everywhere, and then she had to suffer the indignity of being swaddled in a towel and having her feet dried. She gets pretty pissy when you mess with her feet, too. Whenever I clip her claws, she gives me a dramatic open-mouthed dangercat hiss telling me to back off.

Things That Still Piss Me Off After All These Years #15:

When I was a kid I was an ?Air-Force Brat,? which means that every haircut I got until I was old enough to have a say in things was a hideous short-back-and-sides military job that looked like it cost fifty cents. Add to that my hard-to-believe Man From Planet Dork thick-framed glasses and an incredible ability to walk into walls and crash my bike which left me pretty much always with scrapes and cuts on my face and chipped teeth, and I looked like a little Frankenstein. And that look is immortalized in, like, a thousand family snapshots. And that pisses me off.

Women Are Strange #400:

Whatever happened to the girl next door? On crap TV shows like Entertainment Tonight, Extra, shit like that, they always have segments on the latest hot Playboy Playmate, and every once in a while I see one and say, ?Wait a minute.? Having become acquainted with Hefner?s magazine at an early age and having accidentally perused one or two lines of print, I know that one of his founding principles along with the T&A, was that the Playmates should be ?the girl next door.? Well all I can say is that the girl next door must have a rich daddy, because these days it seems like every other Playmate has implants. Now, I can understand a serious makeover, or a surgical tweak to the nose, or a major dental overhaul, but should that much plastic be presented in a mag that prides itself on realistic tits and ass? Yeah, I know that girls rarely get naked and fondle themselves when washing the car or horseback riding or working late at the office? at least, I don?t think they do, but goofy poses and settings aside, shouldn?t they at least be real? I don?t know. Maybe I?m just getting old. (PS- no naughty links necessary in this one. I don?t want to lead anyone underage into restricted areas ?which probably make up about 98.9% of the web these days, and you don?t have to download nekkid pitchurs or buy the magazine to see what I?m talking about. Fake tits shout ?fake tits!? when they are covered or exposed.)

Random Notes:

So, I?m in the can at work this morning and Gutman comes bursting in. Thirty seconds later I feel like I?m experiencing a gas attack in a Tokyo subway as my eyes start to water and my nose starts bleeding. Jesus! What the HELL is this guy eating? Day-old road kill? Medical waste? Plain old-fashioned garbage? He needs to either change his diet or see a doctor. I wish we lived in the future. A science-fictiony future, in which people with unbearably stinky shit are shipped out to the far side of the moon, for the betterment of humanity.

Oh, and I got new pants! Yeah man, new pants. They are big pants. Very comfortable too. Can?t beat a good pair of pants.

Sometimes when I?m bored, I hit Google with a bizarre word combo just to see what comes up. Usually it?s porn (as it appears anyone will fuck anything with anything) but once in a while you hit gems like these-

Random Google: ?Radioactive cheese? 1 result

(1) here and,

(2) here

Final Question:

Isn?t it funny that, as you get older, you realize that everything that happens in life is just the same old shit coming around the bend again? As kids we try to knock down that idea, and we use things to show that we aren?t the same, we?re a whole new breed because of our gadgets. And then as the years pass, we see it happen again and again and realize that nothing ever changes (the net, email, MP3 players, DVDs, cell phones, Discmans, satellite TV, cable, VCRs, personal computers, Walkmans, ATMs, stereos, cassettes and eight-tracks, color TV, touch-tone phones, long-playing records, transistor radios, black and white TV, your own phone, your own car, radio, newspapers and magazines, trains, your own horse, anything with a wheel on it, your own fire?) As far back as you want to go there is always a generation that has come along thinking that they are better or more advanced because of the creature comforts they enjoy, and they won?t realize, until they?ve lived a few years, that no matter how advanced or wired we get or how long we live, people will still be people, and most people will be shit, and the sooner you learn that, the closer you will come to reaching peace of mind by knowing when, where, how and who you should tell to go fuck themselves.

-Rufus

Imagine a dog.

Imagine a dog licking its balls.

Some days you are the balls. And some days you are the dog.

Today I’m the dog. Today licks balls.

Took one lousy day off work, and have already spent four and a half hours straightening things out after the shitstorm left on my desk by the guy covering me. Fuck. This jerk-off couldn’t find his asshole if he walked into a sideshow house of mirrors naked. This whole place sucks. Man, we have got to win the lottery.

-Rufus

Well, it has been a lazy Sunday for Suzy and I. Lazy Sundays should not be spent pissing about on the web. They should be spent watching mindless TV or reading ‘The Calvin and Hobbes Lazy Sunday Book.’

As I prepare for bed this thought comes to mind, one which you should ponder the next time you retire for the night- “It is estimated that the average six year-old pillow will have approximately one-tenth of its weight comprising old human skin, dead and living dust mites, and their dung.”

(From ‘Gross’ by Karl Shaw.)

-Rufus

Gotta be ultra-brief today, kids! Spent five hours yesterday cleaning out the closets from hell, doing laundry, and otherwise de-batchelorizing the house so it would be suitable for Suzy’s return. Now I’m off to the airport to get her. The forcast originally said she’d have a nice sunny SF day, but it’s gloomy and raining (goddamned meteorologists bite bags, the useless scabs), so I hope that blows over, but who cares, I got my Suzy back! Seeya!