Wednesday, November 21, 2001

"Aint' it great to be back home" singeth Simon and Garfunkel (Peter Smith--poet, aspiring Yates incarnate, conessiuer of all things metal--insists that Garfunkel deserves more love than he gets. Gives chocolate-covered Kudos to Graceland, but says that does not justify our negligence toward Mr. Garfunkel).
Great indeed. Debated the fruit|full/\less|ness of counterculture with Max in the cozy busom of Southwest Flight 459. Spent some good quality time with the folks, especially Dad, who showed off his new acoustic for me and gave me some on-the-spot critique of some stuff I wrote this semester. Saw my attic--the always inclimate wilderness that sits atop our house, once adventurezone for mischeivous little boys--gutted thoroughly (my parents are advancing after many years of deliberation on plans to civilize the wilderness. Talked to frazzled Tamar who gave me love and no promises. Conspired with Dr. Swerdlow. Communed with my aged and out-of-tune Steinway upright. Quality time with Ford Madox Ford to cap the night. Tomorrow: JDS, mmmm....just saying it evokes too much. We'll put that back in the box for now and I'll return to Ford's Some Do Not.

Max's link of the day