Did self-defense go too far? Depends on who you ask.

Adam and I got into a heated debate tonight about the Oklahoma pharmacist who shot and killed one of two robbers who held him at gunpoint. He then got another gun and shot the robber five times as he lay unconscious and unarmed on the floor.

Adam says that was unnecessary and that it goes beyond defending himself. I say right on.

Am I cruel? Maybe. All I know is if someone stuck a gun in my face, I could shoot them many times and not feel bad about the fact. I'll be interested to see if he winds up serving jail time for what I consider self-defense.

Today's writing

We don’t drink for the act itself. Orange juice, Diet Coke, bottled water – they’re all in a different category than alcohol. Minute Maid doesn’t offer that rush of looseness and freedom, that sense of possibility like walking the edge of a cliff. The only stupidity associated with Evian is its price.

We drink to make our lives something they're not.

Breakfast

It's just another drunk Saturday

Saturday, 5:30 p.m.: Drinks at Jupiter with Marcus. Adam had a Quasar and a half (Marcus polished off the rest). Herein lies the result.
Poor Oliver. Poor, poor Oliver.
This is what I live with.
We stopped at Walgreens on the way home and bought these. Then we found a new $1 ice cream shop on Shattuck. And then we ran into Carl, who was not phased in the least by any of this. Would you be?

3:51 am

ME: Wow. Willy looks very serious.
ADAM: Of course. He's a French gaywad.

Tahoe

Writing group got a bit heated last night, more so than at any other time since we started meeting in February.

The only thing I could do was to be as straight-up as possible while at the same time trying not to step on toes. Did that work? I can only see it from my perspective.

This group has done great things for my work and I've known them for years. Last night kind of sucked, frankly, but I guess it's bound to happen.

Okay, scratch what I said about the middle being boring. Typing fingers, don't fail me now.

I've already plowed through the epilogue. It's so easy to connect with the present. The past is something different -- it's trickier, long gone. But it's my next step.

Study hall

As I write, these are the books that are by my side should I need inspiration or assistance:

A Wolf at the Table, Augusten Burroughs
Truth and Beauty, Ann Patchett
Oh the Glory of it All, Sean Wilsey
You Are Here, Wesley Gibson
Dog Years, Mark Doty
Dry, Augusten Burroughs

Girlfriend

I never thought I'd be anyone's girlfriend, let alone someone's wife.

Oh, that's not self-pity. I always kind of took that as fact. When Adam used to refer to me as his girlfriend, it was a bit of a zing -- yes!

Last night he was bitching out Comcast on the phone and I just kept hearing wife -- my wife waited four hours and the tech didn't even bother to show up, my wife never received a phone call.

To rip off Pulp Fiction: I like wife much better than girlfriend. And far better than mongoloid.

The middle part

I started writing it yesterday. I found going back to that time felt ... well, moldy and boring.

It's been suggested that I pull my old journals out for material, which I will likely do. I think there's some valuable stuff to mine here, and I also think it's a necessary bridge between two major sections.

But I was happily surprised not to find fresh anger or old pain, but simply the fact that I have moved on.

Why it's The Project

I call it The Project. I always have and I will until it is signed, sealed, and on bookshelves at indie and corporate venues alike.

I've always had a bias against calling it a book unless it's done. I've heard too many people say I've started writing a book. No, you haven't, you douchebag. You have three scrawled pages that will eventually wind up gathering dust. That is not a book. That is, essentially, nothing.

This will be The Project until you can buy it in a store. Then it will be something else.

In lights

I showed Adam what I'd written yesterday. After he finished reading it, he said: "Is there anything else to say?"

"In this passage?"

"No. Period."

I'd reached the end and hadn't even known it. He typed it in all capitals, bolded, highlighted red and surrounded by a blinking box.

Prop 8 upheld

It is a dark fucking day to be a Californian.

Why does one group get to decide everyone else's rights? How does same-sex marriage hurt anyone?

I've wanted to leave this state for a while and I feel even more strongly about it today. California, you suck ass.

Dealing with the end

Sim died.

Simba was my mom's 16-year-old cat, a dark tabby with sweet eyes. She had not a mean bone in her body and would hurt no one, even if provoked. Each time I saw her, I was reminded anew of her trusting and sunny good nature, and it always made me grin.

Sim was just your good old cat, a great companion and a sweet creature. She was diabetic and in the last few months battled kidney disease. Throughout her fight, all the way to the end, she was the same cat she always was. She never changed, never grew mean, never bit back against the many ministrations, medicines, and needle pricks that sustained her each day.

But the sadness that I feel transcends her. It cuts to the bone, to caretaking, to worrying about someone else, to the loss of control we all have. I'm just letting myself feel it. I'm glad Adam's home today with me.

No, you can't sit in my passenger seat

A typically weird trail of thought this morning led me to this: I hate giving people rides.

I am from Southern California. Maybe this has to do with the fact that my car is often a four-wheeled cave of solitude, and I like that. I don't often drive these days, but when I do, it's either with Adam or by myself.

I don't like making polite conversation while I drive.

I don't like explaining my musical choices or -- worse -- offering to compromise as to what's on the radio.

I don't like being distracted from the road. I'm a bad enough driver as it is.

My last year of grad school, there were several people with no cars. Now, I don't get this. St. Mary's is hell and gone from anywhere. But these several people had no cars, and the last bus to the BART departed mere minutes after class let out. The result: The car-less would rush those with cars after class ended with their drive-me-to-BART requests.

Sometimes I gave in. More often I made excuses. I liked driving home by myself after class, just thinking about what was said and what wasn't said and if there had been any arguments and how fun they were. I didn't want to talk. I'd had two classes at least, enough talk.

Besides, I still remember the time I drove two people home to Oakland. One sat in the front seat and talked on the cell phone to his girlfriend. The other sat in the backseat and talked on the cell phone to her friend, making plans for later that evening. Kids, if I'm going to be a cabbie, drop me a tip as you bid me goodbye.

To the car-less among you: I think it's great that you've chosen to forgo the pain-in-the-ass factor that often comprises car ownership. That said, find your own damn wheels when you need them.

I am the Marriage Avenger

We were at the Cal-Neva Circle Bar tonight. I had two drinks, which if you know me means you understand that there was the green glow coming out of my split skull. In other words, the big mouth had just gotten bigger.

Next to us sat a middle-aged couple with wedding rings that didn't match. They were in that process. You know that process. It usually ends up with her Maybelline on his pillow.

They were pissing me off.

Okay. I've only been married for a year, so you can say, sure, Allison, check back with me after twenty years. And what I'll almost certainly tell you is that there's been frustration and temptation along the way. I will also tell you that there will have been very difficult conversations with Adam about this. And I will conclude by saying that there are many unsavory acts of which I may be capable, enjoying Britney Spears among them, but I will never cheat.

I headed for home base on my Singapore Sling and we prepared to leave. I told Adam: "I'm going to do something you don't like, so you can leave before I do it."

He knew my plan exactly. As he left the bar, I turned and yelled: "I hope your spouses are okay with this!"

As we were drunkenly eating peanuts in the arcade, I realized I should've made some crack about Viagra. Nobody's perfect.

Toulouse dreaming

My favorite city is one that once received a Lonely Planet sniff as "old", "crumbling", and "ugly." It is Toulouse, France. It's known as La Ville Rose, and for a reason -- this is the Pink City, full of brick and black wrought-iron. I've been there four times, the last in January 2006 with Adam. I always feel energized, focused, and enthusiastic about life while roaming those crooked streets.

Deborah sent me a package. It arrived today. One look at the postmark and I craved return.

Guess I should stick with the gym

I tried Zumba cardio this afternoon. I didn't like it and it didn't like me.

We'll call the instructor Paolo Coelho. I immediately reacted against Paolo Coelho's jocular light-heartedness. Fuck you, Paolo Coelho, I thought, watching him wiggle, snap and clap across the lawn. Your greatest means of exercise appears to be kissing your own ass. Not that I'm knocking ass-kissing as a valid means of burning calories.

At the risk of sounding arrogant, I am extremely proud of the writing I've done over the last few days. Direct, honest, no distracting digressions. Just the whole ball o'wax, splayed out in a way that I hope the world will one day see.

I've earned the homemade tomato soup and grilled-cheese sandwiches I'm about to make.

Best thing said to me all day

"You inspire admiration in just about everyone you touch." - Adam

Reactivity

I'm learning to look at my own reactions to situations, rather than concentrating on what the other person can or should do differently. That doesn't mean letting people get away with shit. Quite the opposite -- it means not letting have the squeeze on my heart and head.

The childhood at the top of the stairs

My hand is small and sore as it digs into the newel post. They are on the first floor and she is following him, doing something he calls hocking. I'm not sure what hocking is, but I do know that when his voice changes, turns into that up pitch, there is no going back.

My brother is long hidden. I am telepathic, a first-grader with a purpose. Don't. Leave him alone. Please.

Today's writing

“Are you scared?”

They say you can’t fold a piece of paper more than eight times. I’m testing that theory. The first fold holds promise, the sharp crease, the crinkle of the material. By the sixth fold, the effort seems pointless.

“Would you be?”

“Nah.”

We laugh. Of course his answer is bullshit. Of course I’m scared. We’re sitting in his little car in a parking lot in Walnut Creek. Walnut Creek would be like Berkeley if everything – streets, buildings, people – were scrubbed and power-washed. A few more Republicans, some extra popped collars and name-brand khakis, and the slight differences soothe me.

I loosen my grip. There it is: a crumpled sheet of paper on the floor of a car. The dramatic Hollywood moment doesn’t interest me. “Let’s go,” I say, and swing my feet out onto the pavement.

We’re parked behind the building. A landscaped path leads through a courtyard and around to the front. I have a garden of my own now and can identify some of the foliage: lavender, rosemary, alyssium. Amongst rosebushes and ivy lies an expansive man-made pond. Fish swim in those murky waters, big and friendly with harmless black eyes. They don’t seem to mind when I stare.

"Goodbye Solo"

Saw this tonight at the Shattuck Theater. It's a visually impressive film with strong performances, but it sets a bar it ultimately fails to achieve.

Garrulous cabbie Solo meets taciturn William, who wants a ride and nothing else. Solo, a Senegalese immigrant who seems to have made many connections in his time in the U.S., is frustrated by the silence of the man he calls "big dog." It comes out fairly quickly that William wants to commit suicide, and he wants a ride from Solo to the mountaintop where he will do the deed.

"Goodbye Solo" promises a penetrating look at isolation and connection, but ultimately falls back on the typical cinematic take on these matters: Connection is the answer, whether with family or with a talkative cabbie. William is seen sympathetically but clearly treated as the less evolved human for not wanting to share his inner thoughts so readily.

I hate talking to strangers and I would never tell a guy like Solo my middle name, let alone my motivation for killing myself. I walked out of the theater frustrated, not because the movie agreed with me, but because it doesn't address the fact that I'm probably not alone in my relative reticence.

Plugs: Wally's Cafe

If you're looking for dynamite Lebanese-inspired food at a good price in a hole-in-the-wall environment, you can't do better than Wally's. It's located in the Bank Club building in Emeryville, and is connected to a bar with some of the goofier and friendlier (and let's face it, loving-of-the-green-bud) characters you'll ever see.

Wally himself works his butt off. Sit down at the horseshoe-shaped table around his food preparation area, and you'll see him and one other employee bust out some of the best food around. I always get the falafel sandwich with fries. Why mess with perfection?

Wally's Cafe is located at 3900 San Pablo Avenue, Emeryville. Say hi to Wally for me when you go.

I was listening to Harry Chapin at the gym. He doesn't even pretend to be cool and that's why I like him -- because the music snobs don't.

Listening to him makes me think about my work in different ways. Specifically, that the characters who could be natural villains should be anything but that. We were talking about that at writer's group yesterday, and I'm taking it a step further.

The expected villain is not. It's much more interesting that way.

February 4

That's the date I started meeting with the writing group again. That's when I really started to get my hands around what I need to do with The Project.

Guys, as I said to you last night: I think you'll see it really kick into higher gear when you start reading what I've written since Feb. 4. Conversely, if it sucks ass, y'all are to blame and I'll dump your beers upon your heads. Beer washes out easily, doesn't it?

Dieterberg, are you waiting for us?

So the upside to some monkey stealing Adam's Miata is that we're getting a new(er) car. This is a double upshot for me, actually. See, right now I drive a criminally old Toyota Corolla, and while she runs, I need a sexy li'l something to road-trip to Santa Cruz with on nice days.

Enter Dieterberg. He's a 2002 Mercedes C230 coupe. We met him at a shack called Kool Running Autos in Fremont last Friday. He's got a huge sunroof/moonroof combo, a six-speed shifter, and satellite navigation. He's a dazzling blue. And, well, he's generally just pretty hot.

Wish us luck. Right now Adam's '94 Miata is our primary car and riding in it is about as comfortable as bumping your ass on gravel. Save my ass, Dieterberg.

Today's writing

I’m practically waltzing within the gray walls of the basement lab. “Relieved?” Adam asks.

“Fuck yeah. He barely even looked at me.”

“This is a good thing?”

And like that, the balloon pops. The air leaks. Did this guy even look at me? Can the numbers tell the whole story?

Am I hitting yet another dead end?

Adam sees my face and grabs my hand. “Don’t get upset,” he says. It comes about 30 seconds too late. I’m already feeling the energy evaporating through my pores. Sometimes it happens like this. One moment you’re brushing the ceiling and the next you’re kneeling on the floor.

The lab tech emerges and calls my name. I leave Adam behind for the second time today and follow her into a white space spotted with Post-It notes and fill-in slips, all inscribed with handwriting I can barely read, let alone understand. I settle into a seat and offer my arm. My eyes fix on a lone teddy bear propped on a counter, its head swaying low, its gaze directed at the floor.

“My name is Layla,” the tech says. “I’m an intern. Can I draw your blood?”

Shit. Layla, no offense, but an intern? Are you like one of those short-bus riders who work at Longs Drugs on weekends, crossed eyes full of helpful eagerness? Employ the retards to bag your tampons, fine, but do I really want anyone but a certified professional fucking around with my veins?

“Sure,” I say.

She takes a swath of what looks like rubber-band material and ties it around my upper arm. It’s tight. It cuts into the skin. I bite the inside of my cheek but say nothing. Sometimes you lack the strength to advocate for yourself. Sometimes you let the world roll over you, wave after wave, mouth closed, eyes open, hoping simply not to drown.

Today's writing

“Off the charts,” he says. I feel what I always feel in these moments: guilt. Like I’ve done something wrong, screwed up my body and left the mess for someone else to repair.

“I’m an overachiever.” He doesn’t laugh.

The clouds in my head are still drifting, but they’re thin. I’m not yet sure if a storm is approaching. He picks up his clipboard and clicks open a pen. “Your mother,” he says. “Still alive?”

Yes, thank God. I mean this with no sarcasm. It’s a primal thing, primal and maybe something more.

“She have any significant history of medical problems?”

It took her three years to get pregnant with me. Three years of driving from Connecticut to Manhattan to visit her fancy Park Avenue doctor. I grew up hearing about all the work they’d done on her and pictured her body as a construction zone, foundation of concrete, smell of fresh lumber, walled off from the world by an electrified fence and a warning sign.

Something in the Way She Moves

The Beatles with the women they've loved.

Dear Adam

Thank you for always seeing the good in me, even when I have a hard time recognizing it in myself.

Thank you for telling me to fuck off when I need it.

Thank you for never deliberately hurting me.

Thank you for being secure enough to allow me to write about our relationship, and to sit grinning in the audience while I talk about it.

Thank you for stealing my cat. I hope y'all are very happy together.

Thank you for the fact that my family and friends adore you, and with good reason.

Thank you for not driving an SUV.

Thank you for being a surprise.

Thank you for being (mostly) sane.

Thank you for your love, care, and amazing ... smile.

Thank you for being worth the wait.

LY
FBBD

From an email to Deborah

I'm going to write about it because it's universal, and you know what? I've moved on and up.

He's not my companion - I own him

I adopted Oliver more than eleven years ago. In that time he hasn't just taught me about pet ownership. He's taught me how good it feels -- how necessary it is -- to care for something.

The other morning he woke me up to feed him. Adam didn't even stir. Five minutes later he howled to be picked up on the bed. Oh, he can get up by himself. He just sometimes chooses not to.

I picked him up and that was it for me. He went right to Adam -- his favorite -- and instilled himself on his pillow. Then he leaned his head against Adam's and began purring like a diesel engine.

I love him. That's why I don't throw him against the wall for not loving me best.

Last night's performance was great. Sweet audience (except for the woman chewing gum loudly in the front) and I was comfortable enough to slow down and relax into the script.

Afterward, we were talking about going to Dobra Cajovna in Pardubice. It's this fancy teahouse that has outlets all over the Czech Republic. Talking about it, strangely, made me want to return.

Closing the curtain ... for now

Tonight is my last performance for a while. Don't get me wrong -- I love the Marsh, as well as every other venue that has generously opened its stage to me.

But I've become more and more aware that I'm a writer first and performer second. While I love the thrill of taking the stage, I am not a natural performer. I saw in particular with this last round at Monday Night Marsh that I was far more enthusiastic about writing the piece than coaching myself on performing it.

When I make a commitment to a theater, I want to follow through to the most of my ability. Since I'm lagging on this, I think I'm going to take a break and concentrate on the writing, where the opportunities are opening up.

I'll be back, though. Performing is elusive and addictive.

Out of bounds

Over the last few years I've learned to joke about having Congenital Adrenal Hyperplasia, which is the main thrust of The Project.

However, yesterday proved that I still have boundaries.

Adam and I were talking and he made a crack. He thought it was funny. It brought tears to my eyes. I pushed past him as he tried to hug me, said things to make the situation better:

If it was an issue for me, I wouldn't have married you ...

Love you more than I've ever loved anyone ...

Always seen you as beautiful, always ...

"Shut up," I said, whirling to face him from where I sat on the couch. "Just shut up. Do you know how to shut up? Shut up."

Fact is, he was just joking. Joking the way I do, the way I've said I could never joke in the past. Proof that I've moved forward.

Still, we both learned something. I learned just how sensitive I am, and how sensitive I may always be. He learned that sometimes going for the joke is the wrong thing, no matter how innocuous it may seem.

This morning

I'm thinking about the right ways. The right ways to treat people. The ways to make them feel appreciated, heard, taken into account.

You know what? I'm pretty damn good at it. Perhaps I should offer lessons.

Hurts so good

I fucked up my leg on the elliptical yesterday. I was thinking about the addition to The Project and I just got so furious -- in a good, cleansing way -- that I worked my ass off. My leg too, apparently. I think there's some sort of nerve thing going on -- it hurts from my hip to my foot.

Am I going to walk the lake today? You fucking bet. I still have a lot of anger to burn off. I think this is going to be a good addition, provided I don't strangle several bunny rabbits along the way.

Adam on NYT theater reviews

"So they don't give stars? They don't have a little man and he cocks his hat at a certain angle?"

Okay, okay, okay. It's been decided. I'm going to write about It.

You want to read about It? Buy the book when it comes out. I'm sure as shit not writing about It here.

Feel the fear and do it anyway

I just stumbled across a striking picture on Facebook. It was taken by Kathi, a friend-of-a-friend (I met her through Deborah while they were roommates in Toulouse). She's now in Oman, and the picture is of her getting nuzzled by a camel while she throws back her head and grins.

It's a great shot. It really shows the possibilities of not being afraid of the world.

I've had to work through more fear than those who don't know me well might imagine. I'm scared of silly things and large monsters alike. Sometimes I can sit on the fear and sometimes it just makes me explode.

I love that picture of Kathi. It reminds me of why I work to improve myself every day. I like camels.

Manny being Manny

Looks like Manny Ramirez has gotten himself suspended for 50 games for taking some sort of no-no drug. I kind of liked watching him be cocky at AT&T Park last Wednesday, even though L.A. got the snot kicked out of them by the Giants. Go Dodger Blue ... not!

Am I rusty?

I just booked my flights to and from Boston: leaving August 26, returning October 1. I couldn't believe how it made me feel -- excited, absolutely, but also nervous as hell and scared about being away from home for so long.

What. The. Fuck?

I'm the same person who put together a monthlong trip to Europe on a whim. The same person who, six months after returning from that trip, was planning to live over there for a decent chunk of time. I've rented a car to drive from Berkeley to Arcata and back ... in one day. I did the same thing while on a business trip in Washington D.C., driving up to New York, having some Greek food in the Village, and cruising back into the nation's capital at 5 a.m.

I've been to Nice and the Isle of Greece while I sipped champagne on a yacht. Damn you, Charlene, you seventies singer.

I can't come to any sort of fist-slamming conclusions like this is why you should do it, damn it. I am doing it and it's damn good. Still, it doesn't stop me from being nervous in a way I haven't been nervous before. And you know what? That's just fine.

I was talking to Carl about The Project this morning and began to cry. Motherfucker, I thought, does the well ever run dry?

Just dropped in on Rob and told him the light's there at the end of the tunnel. "That's it for me," I said. "I'm writing children's books after this."

"Kids love a good butt joke," he said.

I can do that.

Today's writing

“Oh, hell no.” Adam doesn’t even have his glasses on and we’re already bickering. I picture myself before his bleary eyes, an angry smear.

“It’s not like it’s costing me anything. Canceling is free.”

“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about you being a pussy.”

There are a few words that make me lose my shit. There’s pretentious. There’s mindful. Hell, the name Anita Hill can launch me into a let’s-brawl-about-politics frenzy. But atop that manure heap of terminology lies the word pussy. And he knows it.

Grateful

In no particular order, the things that make me feel this way:

- Tazo Passion Tea
- Modern technology -- couldn't work or live as I do without it
- Internet radio. See above.
- Indian food followed by a sweaty (and necessary) workout
- The fuzzy orange thing lying with his head on my leg as I type this
- Waking up and going to sleep with love
- Friends and family, even (especially) the ones who drive me batty
- Non-toxic fly strips.

Yep. That's about it for now.

"Gimme a Pepsi Free"

If you want a Pepsi, pal, you gotta pay for it!

Okay, it's 10 at 10 ... 1985. And as I'm listening to Marty McFly deal with the trouble of getting spun back in time, I'm considering the difficulty of writing about the present moment.

The Project is getting there, and I'm starting to write about my current life. For some reason that's more difficult -- not emotionally, but craft-wise -- than writing about the past. Riddle me that one, McFly.

Adam to me

"I'm the emotional bull in your china shop."

Today's writing

The fruity taste in my mouth – we’re smoking Skittles-flavored tobacco – curdles when he says: “Want to tell me what it’s about?”

My veins turn to concrete. No. I don’t.

“I’m not your father. I’m just asking.”

He’s right. He’s not my father. The difference is welcome and yet often jolting. He is relaxed where my father is rigid, loose where my father is structured. I sometimes find myself wishing he were more critical of the world around him, angry as I can sometimes flash into anger – and then I realize that – no. It’s not what I want at all.

Blow up that bridge

There is a story I don't want to tell.

It bridges one part of The Project with another. And I ain't spilling.

The guys gave me less shit about it than I'd imagined. I imagined them pushing me, kicking my ass. Instead they sipped their beers and encouraged me to lie. "Who gives a shit about the truth?" Rob said. "I just care about the emotional truth."

Thank heaven. I thought I would walk out of there with my ass stinging. But lying -- now that's just a tasty option.

Plugs: Cafe Saint-Honore, Albany

Since the economy is hitting small businesses pretty hard, I want to get the word out about some of my favorite haunts. Today's plug is for Cafe Saint-Honore at the corner of San Pablo and Solano avenues in Albany. This place is French down to its very soul -- in decor and food if not in attitude, and I am grateful for the latter. Free wifi, and it's open til midnight. It's at 862 San Pablo between Solano and Washington.

And no -- I'm not getting paid or otherwise compensated for this. I'm being selfish -- I want my favorite places to be open the next time I feel like popping in.

Today's writing

I know what this means.

This means stepping back into the game and letting Hope have one more shot. It means finding a doctor – no phone books this time, I have health insurance and a list of preferred providers – and calling for an appointment. It means keeping the appointment, not rescheduling multiple times out of fear.

Sweaty palms on the drive over. A jittery wait while pretending to read Harper’s Bazaar. A snapping feeling in my chest when the white-coated assistant swings open the door and calls a name ... and it’s not mine. The desire to leave, to find the door and use it. The strength to keep my ass in the seat.

Outward calm while I am ushered in and my vitals – height, weight, blood pressure and body temperature – are plucked from my body and recorded. The eternity behind a closed white door, counting floor tiles and reciting names of Beatles albums to keep calm. Please Please Me. Magical Mystery Tour. Yellow Submarine. With the Beatles. Rubber Soul, my favorite, the one recorded while the boys were fairly soaked in marijuana. Maybe I could smoke some weed before the doctor’s appointment. I live in Berkeley, it’s like finding the color yellow in a cornfield.

Screw all of youse, New York is the best in the world

I bet Henry Reininger would agree!

I cannot believe how much noise attends the presence of families. Mothers in particular are incredibly loud. Why do they think everyone within hearing range needs to hear them attending to their children?

I have occasionally thought of having a child. Occasionally, as in when I'm singing a Cat Stevens song or making some pesto and thinking: It would be fun to share this with my daughter or son.

It never lasts long.

Line from typically idiotic Craigslist ad

"Know that we ALWAYS provides quality."

Of course.