Some things I want to remember include:
Marco accidentally got very drunk last weekend (champagne was popped in jest and then consumed in all earnestness), and he made himself remarkable by doing the following remarkable things: he sang country songs and clapped hard like a mechanical monkey until Stephen called him a “hillbilly”; he asked me to brush his teeth and when I actually did he just lay there on the living room rug and laughed and laughed and laughed and tried to bite the toothbrush until his face was covered with foam; and then when I finally got him over to the bed, he told me he didn’t feel so well, so I fetched him the pasta pot from dinner and he immediately put it on his head. When I tried to lure him out of the pot, explaining that pasta pot helmets make sleeping sad, he yelled, from the muffled depths of the 10-quart pot, “Why are you doing this to me?” Finally I managed to talk him out of the pot, and when I left him (to go watch ice skating!) he was dozing comfortably with the pot at the ready on the floor by the bed. But when, hours later, I came to bed (ice skating!), the pot was back on his head. I told him he looked like that cartooon dog that was so ugly he had to wear a miniature house on his head (and who would only take it off to scare away criminals), and he yelled that he had no idea what I was talking about and accused me of being drunk. But I was not drunk, I am not drunk. That dog was REAL!– - – - – - – -
Caroleen and Jeff’s chickens are now officially laying eggs! And some of those eggs are brown, and some of those eggs are a slightly lighter brown, and some of those eggs are GREEN, which seems like a kind of miracle. Chickens do pretty things! Also it turns out that fresh eggs laid by happy, SOMA chickens not only look like something Martha Stewart might herself lay, but they taste GOOD, too (much as, I’m pretty sure, Martha’s eggs do). Though as Joy of Cooking warned, a fresh egg that’s been hard-boiled is amazingly hard to peel, who knew.
Liz and I were groaning, again, about Burning Man, and I finally hit upon the perfect analogy for my feelings about the matter. The next time I’m confronted with a Burning Man evangelist, which is a common hazard here in San Francisco, this is what I’m going to say (and you totally can say this too if you want): “I’m sorry, but for me Burning Man is like toilet training: I got to the bottom of all that long ago, and I’d prefer not to go back to shitting my pants.”– - – - – - – -
Also Marco insists on pronouncing “King Kong” like “ping pong.”More words on: marco