Okay, classes ended with a tiny little fizzle. I took a Latin exam -- doing slightly better save the section with all the plants that the old guy was cultivating under the towers of Corcyria where the black Galasian river curves. I got some website done, too, by which I mean the fabulous and hilarious introduction, and of course I've updated the bibliography, since I've started citing things. Coon's paper's coming along as well, by which I mean I have one of what will, at its current quality, turn out to be about six pages.

Then, out of the grey, I got a call yesterday from Drew, so he and I went out -- me being the sort of fellow who'll shirk any responsiblity for a good night of hedonism (and you know, he's right, I can afford to procrastinate a little, despite the little Hermione Granger that is my conscience and nigh-dominant personality). So, though I had had a late lunch, he wanted a later one, so I drank water (since the old ape at the pizza place wanted ID -- the first time I've been carded in sacula saclorum). We talked about Raymond Chandler and other 30s Book Noir writers, and then headed out to do a few errands, erranting our way up to Barnes & Noble in time for me to blow seventeen on David Sedaris' Me Talk Pretty One Day, which I'm enjoying; he's a funny writer.

He dropped me off at the ol' flat-o-rama, and then I swing the hip groove back up to his place after a brief tour of Quicken (got to keep track of those finances, kids). Following this, we fell in with a Mod Crowd, consisting of Stuart, Amy, Amy's SO whose name escapes me at the moment but I think it was "James" or something similar, and -- joining us later -- Aul Tom (who got his power back on and had that and a keen story about riding his bike to tell us), and, for the first time ever in my sight, Rachel, the reporter and Drew's current SO (more on this later) We all jumped over to JR's, which is a loud little joint near The Square, and they had the good grace to just accept my credit card and start a tab without making a scene about it.

What followed was a night of not-exactly-gin-soaked conversation, where we just cut loose and had a good chomping lip session. I had three Guinness Draught Bottles, which comes out to about a pint and a half, so there was still pain being felt when I went home, no worries there; it also matched the slices of pizza I had, and makes two trinities, which I'll consider to be God's way of sacntioning the evening.

So, yeah, Rachel. She's as Tall As Drew (he's been worried about this for some reason), thin without being overly so, and angular. Light accent. Mildly funny. Good stories. I have no idea what sort of person she is, because there were seven of us, and the conversation by that point was focused between Stuart and "James", who were arguing about godonlyknows, so she was left out of the loop.

Between Drew and Rachel, and Amy and "James", being loving without obviously so, I was feeling rather blue about having no SO, but there were three other single men at the table, so we gave each other supporting glances from time to time, or maybe I made that up, but at any rate I felt less blue about it than I would have in bad company. Single men: God's way of keeping orgies from happening in public. Oh yeah.

So, yeah, nothing's done yet, not a lick, and I've still got 50 lines to do for Dave for today, not to mention the website and this cursed paper. Life goes forth, though. Laundry, yeah, I've got to do laundry, and wash the dishes.

Va bene,
ICL