Spitball Army

The Monday after Labor Day, I went for a swim and was greeted upon submersion with a mouthful of briny water.

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Heading north on 22nd Street toward University Blvd.

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Mid-afternoon lunch accessories on the V. Richards patio.

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It’s really too embarassing to detail where it was or how I found it, but I just thought I’d let it out that it is safe and completely intact and never left my house.

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It has been raining here since Friday night. It is now Tuesday morning. This area sorely needs the rain, and this rain has been ideal – a slow and steady rain, but never a deluge. At this time next week, my neighborhood will be ten shades of green. But, today, as I walked across the back lawn to my office hideaway, the soil underneath the grass groaned and moved beneath my feet, sounding like an old man breaking wind.

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Here, through the windshield of a PT Cruiser, is the view from about midway across “Suicide Bridge” in Balboa Park, looking toward the tower and dome of the Museum of Man.

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There is no denying that Mo is a pretty woman.

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The list displays the following 100 books (hopefully in random order – how else to explain Les Miserables at #100, well behind The Da Vinci Code?), with instructions that allow you to take stock of how “well-read” you are (according to their parameters, of course) and allow you to pinpoint some reading goals.

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The photo above has been sitting on my desk for a couple of weeks. I didn’t know what to do with it. Then, in a moment of mindless whimsy, I decided to scribble us new faces using Microsoft Paint.

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When the jagged, moldy, fractured tub surround was completely removed, the wall was the wholly unappetizing color of alien baby vomit flavored with chocolate squiggles.

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