My Web site is gone
At least I think it is. Luckily, I've already constructed another one so people don't have to miss a second of my sporadic journal entries and thoughts. I probably won't get around to publishing the other site for awhile though. Can't remember where I left off in my description of the weekend.
Um...Padhraig and Shawn drank beer throughout Jodie's graduation party and then reluctantly switched to wine when the beer ran out. I had half a glass of champagne which Theresa, Jodie's yogi friend, poured for us during the Jodie story-telling part of the evening. That's the part where you go around the room and everyone relates an adventure or memory of the person being honored, mostly favorable. Michael, Jodie's brother, revealed to everyone that Jodie was the high school home-coming queen. Jodie's dad told a funny story about when Jodie was a little girl, but I can't remember what it was exactly, though I feel like it had to do with construction paper. Shawn told about how Jodie painted his toenail one night. Padhraig did not tell about the time they made out. That came later, when we went back to Padhraig's apartment to relate all the Jodie stories we could've told and didn't because her parents were around. I felt a little sad then, and more sad today, for some reason, maybe because it's rainy. don't go, don't go, don't go, but she already did.
Have read 2 really good books lately and am in the middle of a third. It doesn't often happen that I leave the library with this kind of bootie, but I scored this time. Finished Jeanette Winterson's Lighthousekeeping (which not many reviewers seem to like) in an afternoon--sort of a fable about an orphaned girl raised in to be a lighthouse keeper. Great lines, the kind you want to write down and remember every day. Went on the read Martin Amis' Night Train, a hardboiled detective novel about a female detective named Mike who's trying to unravel the causes for a suicide of a very lucky girl. As in Time's Arrow, his ending kills you. Now I'm halfway through Bullet Park by John Cheever, one of my fav writers of all time in part because he writes so disparagingly and desperately about suburbia. Maybe I am just relieved to have books back in my life. We've been kept apart too long by the ridiculous summer schedule of the Philadelphia Library (my branch is open M-F from 1-5, perfect for children, stay-at-homes, vagrants, grandpeople, and exactly no one else).
Um...Padhraig and Shawn drank beer throughout Jodie's graduation party and then reluctantly switched to wine when the beer ran out. I had half a glass of champagne which Theresa, Jodie's yogi friend, poured for us during the Jodie story-telling part of the evening. That's the part where you go around the room and everyone relates an adventure or memory of the person being honored, mostly favorable. Michael, Jodie's brother, revealed to everyone that Jodie was the high school home-coming queen. Jodie's dad told a funny story about when Jodie was a little girl, but I can't remember what it was exactly, though I feel like it had to do with construction paper. Shawn told about how Jodie painted his toenail one night. Padhraig did not tell about the time they made out. That came later, when we went back to Padhraig's apartment to relate all the Jodie stories we could've told and didn't because her parents were around. I felt a little sad then, and more sad today, for some reason, maybe because it's rainy. don't go, don't go, don't go, but she already did.
Have read 2 really good books lately and am in the middle of a third. It doesn't often happen that I leave the library with this kind of bootie, but I scored this time. Finished Jeanette Winterson's Lighthousekeeping (which not many reviewers seem to like) in an afternoon--sort of a fable about an orphaned girl raised in to be a lighthouse keeper. Great lines, the kind you want to write down and remember every day. Went on the read Martin Amis' Night Train, a hardboiled detective novel about a female detective named Mike who's trying to unravel the causes for a suicide of a very lucky girl. As in Time's Arrow, his ending kills you. Now I'm halfway through Bullet Park by John Cheever, one of my fav writers of all time in part because he writes so disparagingly and desperately about suburbia. Maybe I am just relieved to have books back in my life. We've been kept apart too long by the ridiculous summer schedule of the Philadelphia Library (my branch is open M-F from 1-5, perfect for children, stay-at-homes, vagrants, grandpeople, and exactly no one else).