So I turned 39. It's a good number! Some drinking was involved — nice-priced Bordeaux with friends. Earlier that day I bought a Loudin wainright album (Attempted Moustache) that is not as good as Corky's debt to his Father, which David got me for my 35th but it's pretty darn good nevertheless and similarly folk-rocking. I was rescued from the bar very late by a friend who is a forestry major and an amazing man of the world (even though he's never left the country). He gave me his couch for the night. I share an office with his amazing wife. I left their house with a knitted beanie and a walking stick, and made my way home. Having seen that Andy Richter stopped there on a recent Conan segment, I visited Galaxy Diner for breakfast. The atmosphere of Galaxy is the equivalent of a 57 Chevy, but the service was bad and I can do better than the omelet that came my way (pictured).
Gave them a measly tip and me and my walking stick got the heck out of there. Goodwill Industries is next door, so of course I stopped in, but didn't get anything. I am worried their prices are going up. Noticed a lot of shirts I used to get for three bucks there for seven dollars. Still not ready for any serious writing. Finished my Orson Welles story (he makes a cameo anyway) and needed a break. Reading Flaubert's letters because I want to get back into the flow.
Took some photos of my bedroom and the lovely painting Mia gave me for my birthday.
I promise the title of this post will be the first and only time I reference the barforama Beatles.
