One of my very favorite sci-fi titles ever was "What Entropy Means to Me".

The bottom line on the estate issue is that the old childhood home, to which I planned on retiring and living out my dottage, will be sold. The insurance company has forced our hand by refusing to insure an empty home, and I can't buy it now.

Many years ago, my professional portfolio was stolen out of the trunk of my car*. It was simultaneously the most frightening and the most liberating thing that ever happened to me, career-wise. This is sort of the same.

I don't want to give up the house, but the RLA and I will be able to retire wherever we wish, and if our wish turns out to be my home town, then we can find our own dream house, and not my parents'.

Still, this is the third or fourth family home that we've had to close, and had to say goodbye to, when we really would rather have lived in it.

If there is one thing of which I am sure beyond all doubts, it is that the universe will unfold as the universe will unfold and no amount of wishing, dreaming or planning can change the course of time.

So. What can I do instead of trying to change the universe? I can appreciate the universe as it reveals itself to me.
I was so enamoured of this guy's hoodie that I actually asked him permisssion to photograph it. I usually just take pictures, figuring if someone is out in public looking like that, or doing that, then it should be no skin off their nose(s) if I take a picture.



Those shiny studs? It took me a minute to figure out what they were: the metal guards from the tops of bic cigarette lighters. Removed. Attached. Voila. Art.

How cool is this?



* from the trunk of my car as it sat in the parking lot at Tobacco Road. Figures.

Well. after eleven whole days of indolence, today I go back to work.

I have a list as long as my arm of things I need to do that isn't even remotely related to my day job, and I can only imagine what a pile of paper I'll have waiting for me on that desk.

But like Nixon, I'm tanned, rested and ready. And that, dear readers, is the ONLY way in which I am like unto Richard Milhouse Nixon.

The year is half over? Or there is still another half of a year to go through.

Anyway, it wouldn't be the Fourth of July here at the Casita de Zapatas if we didn't crank up the old hi-fi and blast Springsteen's "Sandy" through the entire battery of speakers.

Today is the last day of my vacation. I was able to smooth the old brain wrinkles out to a marble for a while, but tomorrow I go back to the real world, which includes a major issue with the 'rent's estate.

Biggus Dickus (he has a wife, you know) and I are co-executors of said estate, and can do nothing independent of each other regarding same. This works out in real life to Biggus Dickus (he has a wife, you know) turfing everything to me to figure out.

The current issue came to light while I was on vacation. When I got home, there was a message on the answering machine from someone who said that they had discussed this with Biggus Dickus (he has a wife, you know) and that he told them that they had to speak to me about the issue. I now have less than 30 days to find a solution to this mess and Biggus Dickus (he has a wife, you know) still hasn't had the courtesy to give me a heads up.

But then, if he understood the situation, he wouldn't have turfed it to me. And I have an underlying and uneasy suspicion that it was his incompetence that brought this newest crisis to bear.

Have I ever mentioned that he's the older child? By six years and ten months, which has always been shorthanded in the family to seven years. His wife, Incontinentia Buttocks, very pertly corrected me about this matter the last time anyone mentioned it. "SIX YEARS older, really. He was born in '48 and you in '54."

Whatever. He's still the big brother (no holding company) but you'd never know it by the way things are around here.

Fuck it. I'm off to listen to Bruce, and tomorrow?

Well, tomorrow is another day, and I'll think about everything then.

Tequilla should come with a warning other than the one about not drinking if you are pregnant. Like, maybe, don't drink in the sun or don't consume if you wish to remain conscious for longer than it takes to consume three of these.

But then, where would the fun or challenge be in that. Star drank me under the beach chair yesterday and she claims that she wasn't even trying. Of course she says that now, but the last clear memory I have is of a story wherein she told a co-worker that she could drink him under the table and he didn't believe her, but the bartender did and told the kid if he wanted to see the morning through clear eyes, he wouldn't try to prove Star wrong.

Brrrrrrrr. At least I passed out in the cool dark of my room and not the beach, which means only that I slept for 15 straight hours and not that I have the sort of sunburn one associates with German tourists and French Canadians.


Limetree was as good as their word, and did, in fact get a wireless network up and running. The best part of it is that the only place to get a good connection is out here on the lanaii, overlooking the Gulf. "Tough life," says Star, from her chair next to me. Those are my feet, and that is the adorable little tote that the equally adorable Jade brought as gifts when she came up to meet us.

Jade is just a stitch, and if she lived in Miami, she would be one of the regulars at the Casita de Zapatos, that's for sure. She's already mentioned this multi-tasking monstrosity, but sweeties, words (and even pictures) cannot do it justice (?).



This dress... this dress... is a sweet little faux-wrap in the most hideous of shiny, slippery, synthetic knit fabric that you know will be cursed with static cling every nanosecond of its miserable life. It will stick to you and crawl around on you no matter what you try to make it stop. And then there is the print. It is a photo-real print of crocheted granny squares in some of the most unfortunate colors since they showed up in kitchens in the 50s.

Star says that if you made this dress in real granny squares it would be unwearable, because it would be heavy and it wouldn't drape correctly. I say: your point is? Because if it wouldn't be wearable if it were real, then why would anyone think that it would be wearable as a simulacrum?

I present the dress. That's Jade's arm.

Tomorrow, the RLA, Star and I head over to the Gulf Coast for a week of serious laying around doing nothing. Except laying around and drinking and eating. And Star and I have sworn to drag our sewing machines and make a few quilt tops while we're there. That remains to be seen. I may drag some yarn and knitting needles, instead, because they're lighter and take up less room. Or not.

While we're there, I've made a date to meet up with the crafty (as in fiber arts, and not as in sly and devious, but then, I don't really know that, do I?) Jade of Unfinished Object. We've agreed to meet in a bar. It was that or a shoe store.

Jade has expressed some reservations about meeting me, saying that she didn't know if any of her footwear was fabulous enough. I told her that contrary to popular belief, there's more to me than just shoes. There's snark and sloth. And a large percentage of alcohol.

While the Limetree swears that it has added a wireless internet service, we'll see if I update while I'm gone.

Stay cool, wear things that fit, and I'll see you all next week.

P.S. The Miami Heat victory lap will be going right past my office building. I'll try to get some pics to share.

The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won!

And what a glorious face-stuffing it was. Damn, I love it when my home team wins on the other guy's turf. Like when the Marlins thrashed the Yankees in the high cathedral of baseball.

Can I get a witness?

I've been working on a joke all week, the punchline of which was going to be "It wasn't the Heat, it was the Humidity." I never quite got the set up to my satisfaction, but as things stand (The Heat won!) I don't need to, do I?

And then there's this joke that I can't remember (do we sense a trend creeping in) the punchline of which is "Trick question, Lemmy IS God." But I think that today, that would have to be Dwyane Wade is God.

What a game! What a bunch of clutch players! What a game! What a hot time in Miami!

And for the record, sports announcer guys? The fact that Heat players can't hit from the free-throw line is sort of a team hallmark, OK? It started 18 years ago with the guy who was supposed to be the franchise then, one Rony Seikaly, who was the most-fouled player in the NBA because it was universally known that the guy couldn't sink a free-throw if his life (and/or career) depended on it. How bad was he? He was sooo bad, that even Heat fans yelled "AIR BALL" every time he stepped to the line.

Or at least one of us did. But then, I also had this theory: Rony Seikaly and Vinnie Testaverde are the same person. You never see them in the same place at the same time, and they both needed the Heimlich manuever every time they played in the clutch.

Oh, and Pat Riley? Total. Hottie.