This little guy's expression sums up, quite nicely, my state of mind of late. Perplexed. Bewildered. Befuddled. Confounded. Generally flummoxed. And I think it's going around... I sense it in many a folk (or am I projecting?), but I can't place my finger on why and why now. Are we all just hurtling through time and space, and occasionally the cosmos urges us to take a step back and simply marvel at how odd it all is? And when marveling becomes just a little too heady we hit play and start all over again? Yeah, I'm probably just projecting.
Anyhow, it's going to be a good weekend here in Chicago. Foo's going to get a much-needed bath to wash off Beans' puppy oils that have been on him since our canine visit of *oh* TWO weeks ago.... and then... PITCHFORK. H. E. double-hockey-sticks to the yeah, PITCHFORK! I have gg to thank for hoofin' her wee phalanges all over the internet to find me a ticket. It looks like I'll be getting them from this fellow selling a ticket on Craigslist:
So, my beautiful, talented, charming wife of two years has just informed me that, rather than our original plan of attending Pitchfork this weekend, she'd prefer we break up instead. Not nearly as fun, I'd say, but she calls the shots, so here we are. Somebody knit me a tissue.
What that means is that I'll be going stag and using the proceeds from selling her ticket at the beer tent. $50 gets you into the show and keeps me in suds for most of the day. That, my friends, is making lemonade.
Pickin' up my tick tonight at 9. Dark, black 9 o'clock. Because I am who I am, and Ji is who she is, and together we have watched far too many "Primetime Crimes", we've concocted a safe plan wherein I insist the guy come down to my car to make the trade. I'll open my door just... enough... to make the exchange (window's still broke), whilst my feet are poised in gear and ready to peel off at the first sign of... a chainsaw.