for dad, for christmas.

In an effort to avoid consumer material crap that he won't use (he hasn't opened his present from last year, and I can't say I blame him), and due to the recent demise of the company which once produced the object of his strange foodie ritual, and to enjoy a treat more tasty and real than the original (this is a weird sentence), I've figured out what I'm "giving" my father for Christmas.

Giving = learning how to put the damn things together, and then actually handing him a plate of them on his March 8th birthday.

I wonder what the best way to dye coconut pink is.

trois, douze, merde!

Reading through old blog posts can make one . . . nostalgic.

I am considering taking the time to return to this blog.

In the mean time, let's talk about a movie. Jord, Garett and I saw a clementine of a film last week.

Holy Motors.

I only recommend it if you think life's a little profane, a little absurd, a little heart-wrenching, a little cheesy, a bit queer.

The Tower cat sat on my lap for the first half-hour, then jumped off, then wandered up the aisle meowing loudly.

It fits.