People over 50 who eat hot wings after 8 pm deserve world class heartburn. I ask for no sympathy and it’s a good thing I expect none.
It is with flaming heart, therefore, that I announce the following horrific news. I decided to clean off the memo portion of my cell phone as I recollected just now that I had sung a number of tunes into it. Well, a number turns out to be seven, all but one without lyrics and me with no clue what key they are in or what to call any of them. Thank you o great muse for your immense bounty, but I JUST SAID on my blog that I had 39 percent of them written down, so I’m down to 36 percent instantaneously. Now, this is a fine, a stupendous problem to have, and I’d be six kinds of fool to even hint at wishing for a shutoff valve, but I refuse to do anything but acknowledge the fact that I have yet more work, as sleep beckons.
I got to meet Mike’s new inamorata Vilma. (While Keith played Rock Band non stop). She can sit on her hair. I know personal remarks is rude, but her hair is stupendous, and comes entirely unregulated or mishandled by professionals in cascading rippling waves of honey blonde that terminate just above the backs of her knees. The full effect is enhanced by her petiteness, and of course if she wasn’t a lovely, smart and good-natured woman the personal remarks would be even ruder. Mike has horseshoes clanking around in his sitz platz.
Oh, and me and Mike and Keith played darts. Mike won with a dazzling “come through in the choke” maneuvre.
