like that all-american rejects song

Swing, swing, swing.  A whirlwind might be an understatement.  Even my non-road-trip weekends are turning out to be more tightly scheduled than Mischa Barton’s fashion show appearances.  Luckily, I don’t have to change clothes between each of these events.

Friday night, I went to Velocity for Segway Cops / Now Sleepyhead / Homemade Knives.  The new shop is nice, spacious, and smells of paint.  I got to catch up with some people I hadn’t seen in a while, get an enthusiastic hug from Michael, make eyes at Karen while they played, get covered in cheek-kisses by Andrew Rhea, whisper with Shane J., and see Ian in his natural habitat.  Afterwards I scooped up Maddie and went to Ipanema for a bit, where Dan said he wanted to be Sinbad for Halloween.  Sigh.

Saturday I tried to get to my parents’ house, but their street was closed due to flooding, so I had to go around some ridiculous way, and I still had to ford a mini-river to get there.  But the sushi place in Chester (really) where Megan and I went to lunch was deserted, so we were able to enjoy the full attentions of the staff.  Even the sushi-maker guy came out and wanted to know if it was good or what.  Good sushi, and you don’t have to fight crowds for it?  It might be worth the drive.  We spent the whole time laughing, especially over a particularly rude fortune.  I’m glad I got to hang out with the kid sister while she was here.

Back at the ranch, Noel and I completed our October tradition of watching Hocus Pocus together.  Ice has not lost his subtle charm.  Neither has the word “yabos.”

Later on, I bought a piece at Mandy‘s incredible art show.  It’s an investment, because some day this lady’s works will be selling for more than you paid for your car.  So now an image of Ryan‘s torso will live above my mantle, or somewhere in that room upstairs.  You can never accuse Mandy of getting something for nothing, because shortly thereafter I dined like a queen on her and Ian’s homemade appetizers.  The new apartment is impressive, and as conducive to parties as the last.  I had an excellent time and was dragged away with many books in my arms, also courtesy of Mandy.


Sunday we drove up to DC to visit Maddie’s uncle, a genious who translates ancient Gaelic texts for a living.  He uses old-school ink pens and has antique ink blotters that he uses while working on decoding those manuscripts.  He’s impeccably manicured, owns about a million oriental rugs, and can have a conversation with you about punk fashion.  He has no TV, uses a typewriter, and has a huge painting hanging over his mantle of a fictional emperor that he created.  He “throws together” a perfect salad nicoise, feeds us panforte and the best goat cheese that’s ever crossed my lips, and drowns us in the finest wines.  I kind of love him.

We got home in a rather wilted state from our marathon lunch and subsequent 2-hour drive, and retired to the couch for pizza and the usual Gilmore Girls.  Guess what?  Nothing remotely surprising happened.  And yet, we continue to watch.  I think we continue to watch because of Kirk.
Last night we had Amber M. and Lauren H. over for dinner, which consisted of some falling-off-the-bone chicken, aparagus, and applesauce bread (with homemade jam courtesy of Chelsea).  The best of food, the best of company.  Once again a good time was had.

I’m feeling a little rushed with all the things I have to make for Christmas.  I’m trying to make people things instead of buying everything, but these things take time.  Next year I’m starting in January.  Any time spent sitting on the couch watching various Netflix pics a la Maddie is also spent furiously stitching on something or other.  I suppose I can rest when I’m dead.

This week is busy; I don’t have a free second the whole week.  And the weekend isn’t any less busy, with the Marie Antoinette premiere, Joe & Victoria‘s wedding reception, and Langley Holland playing at Hyperlink.  Hopefully one of these days I can shun human contact and hole up in my room, reading.

Until then, I blog for sanity.

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2 thoughts on “like that all-american rejects song

  1. i’ve been meaning to tell you that ian’s mom’s name is marie antoinette weaver.
    she always gets eye rolls at customs.

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