So starting off the second week of my break from the drinking life seems to be going better than starting the first weekend. Went to a friend's birthday party last Friday night and wouldn't you know, she (or one of her friends) had been kind enough to stock the party with top-shelf booze (that remained untouched nearly the whole night.) Hard to say no when it's stuff I can barely afford at a liquor store, much less a bar. But despite the temptation, and the soft pressure of seeing my friends booze it up, I managed to drink only water. That being said, it was an odd party. Several of my compatriots (whom included the Hurricane, Gavagirl, and Jefe...perhaps we should have talked about our blogs) commented on feeling like the freaks of the party. Which is true-our birthday-ridden friend T___ had invited mostly conventional (by which I mean Republican) friends, older than herself and married. Our delegation was therefore not only the youngest, but contained the majority of smokers (a little league coach came out to bum one off somebody at one point) and seemingly the only people who were primarily drinking. Except yours truly, of course, and Gavagirl, which meant that we spent equal amounts of time smoking and critiquing the design of the kitchen.

I've become a bit of a design snob recently, though it's not as if I have formal training, or even a specific school I adhere to. I tend to lean toward modernism a little, although I think what really irks me is the faux-folksy-rustic look that seems the (godawful) rule in the suburbs and exurbs. Shaped particle board, coated in woodgrain laminate, or worse real wood stained horrible shades of pepto/vomit pink and white, make my skin crawl. The worst part of this particular kitchen had to be the crown molding free-floating on cabinets that did not reach the ceiling. Come the fuck on, that baroque shit was designed to hide bad joins with the ceiling in the days before caulking. Putting it in any contemporary context is like admitting you're incompetent, if it's actually at a seam between the ceiling and something else free floating like it was in that kitchen, it's like admitting that you not only don't know how to do a nice job, you don't know how to cover it up, either. If anyone knows the architectural firm that designed the cookie cutters at Travis Country, let me know-I've got a lead on some professional drawing-and-quartering people.

To end on a positive note: I've been watching the DVD my dad sent me of No Direction Home, the Scorcese-directed documentary about Bob Dylan. One of the interviewees discusses going to a club during the Cuban Missile Crisis, seeing Dylan on the stage, and being invited up to play a few songs with him. The mental response related in the interview was "how can you be thinking of playing when we could all be dead tomorrow?" I thought, and the Hurricane said as well, how better to spend what might be your last night on earth but doing what you love, or at least having fun? So, more fun and less worry people.

Your Pal,
Dylan.