It’s Not You, It’s Me.

No, I’m not still reading that book. And no, I’m not still listening to the Violent Femmes (thanks Delphine and Dave for your concerns about my iPod’s state).

I can’t even really blame the job, but I will anyway. I’m working, and AB’s here, and life is hard and I’m trying to get this year’s Dewey project up and running and AB’s thinking about doing a little redesign over here and maybe when the colors change I’ll feel like telling you all about Taylor, (who has stopped licking himself) or Cal (who wails through the night like a crazy woman in a ghost story), or Los Angeles (where yesterday at a Rite Aid I watched a young blonde with a post-op bandaged nose walk through the door, followed by an older Russian woman who was pushing her yippie dog in a baby stroller), or work (which is good and everybody’s really nice and I fail every day at not being the weird one), or the status of my toes (in need of a pedicure; keep dropping large objects on them), or how Sara wrote a book I can’t seem to get a copy of, and the other Sara got me addicted to So You Think You Can Dance?

But until all then, here’s something funny from Jason, Brently and Liz, filmed quite a few years ago. Look for a special cameo from my old kitchen in Silverlake.

Come back to me, Silverlake kitchen! You were so sunny and spacious, with so much counter space and an abundance of electrical outlets! Oh, how glorious it was to have an oven vent that worked, and a freezer with space for things that needed freezing! You might have been made for the extremely tall, but you were so, so, pretty. And you were attached to a garage. I miss you, Silverlake kitchen. Ti amo.

Sorry to be so absent,

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