Here Is Me Typing These Words

In this moment I'm sitting on a stool in the kitchen sipping vodka from a cooler glass while I wait for the sweater that I'm planning to wear to a gay dinner party in Golden Gate Heights tonight to shrink up a bit in the dryer.

Subjects that have crossed my mind since opening my laptop include pizza, Paris, my mother, my knees and how crazy-go-bummed I am that I can't find a physical copy of Nora Ephron's Heartburn anywhere. I checked two bookstores after work last night and another the night before and none of them had it. I could buy an electronic version but I don't really want to.

B just got home from a haircut so he's rinsing off in the shower before we head out. The dinner party we're attending will begin with a sunset (the house has ocean views, I'm told) and include gumbo, which sounds dope.

There was Red Bull in the fridge so I put it in this drink and I wish I hadn't.

Lastly, because of what's going on an ocean away, I'm reminded of a lovely and simple quote from Ernest Hemingway's novel A Moveable Feast, which I enjoyed very much when I read it a long time ago.

But Paris was a very old city and we were young and nothing was simple there, not even poverty, nor sudden money, nor the moonlight, nor right and wrong nor the breathing of someone who lay beside you in the moonlight.