A Blessing

My computer done broke. Broke as in, “I sure hope you backed up your hard drive. Your computer’s done broke.” I hadn’t. I hadn’t even though I’m working on a book. For the record, not backing up when you’re working on a book is the stupidest kind of not-backing-up you can do. Fortunately, Lane Becker–who is wise beyond all measure–figured out how to get the information from my hard drive before I had to give the laptop back to Apple. Therefore, my lovelies, please back up, as you may not have a Lane Becker in your life.

I went to the candy store, because Lane is a man who deserves some chocolate. The woman behind me in line was excited because it’s Friday. Tonight is the night when her husband brings home a bottle of champagne, she brings home a box of chocolate, and they spend some time on the porch.

Friends, may your Friday be so sweet, and your computer perpetually hummming.

Bad Signs

Bryan calls information and asks for “the John Kerry for President National Headquarters.” There is a pause. The operator says something. Bryan responds, “No. With a ‘K.’ John Kerry… No… It’s K-E-R-R-Y.”

No Traffic

Two moments of note on the drive home from Memorial Day weekend:

A family of three is up on the overpass. They’re wearing cartoonish Uncle Sam hats, and waving a huge American flag. Passing motorists honk ecstatically. We are honking for the common good. We are honking for freedom of the press, and cowboy hats, and the hope of growing rich from our own labor. Once we’ve passed, we stop honking and dig through the bags in the back seat to see if there’s any more beef jerky.
Amidst acres of artichokes, this small man in his straw hat stands alone under the midday sun. He pauses to look up at the rows unfolding to the horizon, and then steps from each to each, using his hoe to clear debris from the trenches.

Butts of Doom

My five-year-old nephew thinks butts are scary. I know this because, when asked to tell a scary story around the campfire, his stories are always about butts. These butts are massive; they darken the night sky. They produce thunderous foreboding flatulence, warning unsuspecting campers that giant feces are about to rain down upon their flimsy dome tents. Actually, according to Trevor, they don’t rain down so much as “plop.” But, still.