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I slept in today, and then headed to Oak Cliff (still my true home) to catch the last day of a friend's gallery show. (It's the friend's gallery and in this case the friend's work, or rather the work of several friends.) It sounds like they're planning to skip town soon, which is only not a disaster because I plan to skip town soon. We made nebulous plans to get sushi and watch my films, and they gave me a bracelet (made of elk fur?). I ate beef tongue tacos and Ciro found Illy coffee and even though it was very hot out we found some shade.
As we were wrapping up, we got a call from Ed inviting us to swim at Jesse's, which required a fraught shopping trip to buy Ciro a swimsuit. Fraught not due to body consciousness but because all men's swimsuits at Target assume that you're huge and that you want extra fabric to give you the excuse that your hugeness is fabric. (I'm not dissing this option; I'm dissing this as the only option.) We had to default to the boys section, where everything was still baggy and calf-length, but not as badly. They were out of pirate skulls. Ciro went with sharks.
I am very out of condition, swimming-wise. I used to be much faster. My lung capacity is still there, but not, among other things, my buoyancy. This is one thing baby fat was definitely good for.
Once we were good and worn out, we all had dinner with Andrea at Cafe Izmir to belatedly celebrate Ciro's birthday. It was our first time back (all of our) since the wedding, which was pleasant to think about. The dinner, as seems to happen, turned into an impromptu casting session and a going away party for Andrea, who is leaving for college in San Marcos in a few months. It's as though Dallas is a water table turning over; every month, more of the people I like leave, or declare they're leaving, and new neo-cons arrive. One of the side effects is that driving has become increasingly dangerous. It's amazing to find it worse every month, but it is. There isn't a day now I'm not nearly crashed into by an aggressive driver flaunting traffic laws, usually more than once. It's like I've moved to another country without moving.
In any case, I've eaten enough to make me sluggish and satisfied, which always has the counterproduct of making me dissatisfied, and puts me in the state of mind where I get mad at myself for singing other people's songs instead of writing more of my own, which I have to admit is entirely out of laziness -- and perversity, since most of the songs I like involve three or four chords, and sometimes just two, but my excuse for not writing is often that my songs don't have enough chords in them and must be boring. I'm annoyed with myself for having songwriter's block, even though I have no real need to write more songs or a venue to sing them in, and even though I could probably get over it just by deciding to get over it. But do I need another project? Possibly I do. I hate it when my creative impulses free-float like this; it makes every day aggravating.
As we were wrapping up, we got a call from Ed inviting us to swim at Jesse's, which required a fraught shopping trip to buy Ciro a swimsuit. Fraught not due to body consciousness but because all men's swimsuits at Target assume that you're huge and that you want extra fabric to give you the excuse that your hugeness is fabric. (I'm not dissing this option; I'm dissing this as the only option.) We had to default to the boys section, where everything was still baggy and calf-length, but not as badly. They were out of pirate skulls. Ciro went with sharks.
I am very out of condition, swimming-wise. I used to be much faster. My lung capacity is still there, but not, among other things, my buoyancy. This is one thing baby fat was definitely good for.
Once we were good and worn out, we all had dinner with Andrea at Cafe Izmir to belatedly celebrate Ciro's birthday. It was our first time back (all of our) since the wedding, which was pleasant to think about. The dinner, as seems to happen, turned into an impromptu casting session and a going away party for Andrea, who is leaving for college in San Marcos in a few months. It's as though Dallas is a water table turning over; every month, more of the people I like leave, or declare they're leaving, and new neo-cons arrive. One of the side effects is that driving has become increasingly dangerous. It's amazing to find it worse every month, but it is. There isn't a day now I'm not nearly crashed into by an aggressive driver flaunting traffic laws, usually more than once. It's like I've moved to another country without moving.
In any case, I've eaten enough to make me sluggish and satisfied, which always has the counterproduct of making me dissatisfied, and puts me in the state of mind where I get mad at myself for singing other people's songs instead of writing more of my own, which I have to admit is entirely out of laziness -- and perversity, since most of the songs I like involve three or four chords, and sometimes just two, but my excuse for not writing is often that my songs don't have enough chords in them and must be boring. I'm annoyed with myself for having songwriter's block, even though I have no real need to write more songs or a venue to sing them in, and even though I could probably get over it just by deciding to get over it. But do I need another project? Possibly I do. I hate it when my creative impulses free-float like this; it makes every day aggravating.
