Heyyyyyyy who's up to meet the mysterious Alameida in person at some bar or something in Washington, D.C. or Takoma Park/Silver Spring MD? I was thinking this coming Friday or Saturday, whichever gets more votes. I'm a little at a loss for where we should go and defer to current D.C. area residents. The cab fare to Fresh Salt is too expensive when you're staying in fucking Manhattan, so let me be the first to say Fresh Salt is not an option. Busboys and Poets moved to right by me and is next to the Takoma metro station, but I don't know what it's like.
If my mom weren't sick I would just have all the lurkers over to my house, but... However, she is doing amazingly well, considering! Her recovery from the brain surgery has been perfect, and not only has the normal chemo shrunk her lung tumors, the tumors shrank again during the last round, even though the medicine she was taking was not meant to have this effect at all! It's intended to forestall regress while letting her body take a break from the "let's just infuse you with poison, shall we?" meds. Her oncologist, whom we call "Dr. Doom" due to her predilection to say, essentially, "the icy, withered hand of Death clutches at your shoulder; who knows how soon his grip will tighten" was positively beaming. She gave my mom permission to push her appointments apart a little and fly to see me in Narnia in January! And because John Hopkins sequenced the DNA of her cancer and tailored the chemo to it, the she hasn't lost hair or even vomited more that two or three times through this whole year of 6-weekly chemotherapy. The treatment is radically different from what it would have been even ten years ago.
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We went to stay in Wainscott for our first family Thanksgiving there since my grandfather died, which one of my wonderful cousins organized. And my mom's former step-brother/possibly actual brother since her dad was putting smooth moves on his third wife before the dissolution of her marriage let us use his plane-share thing to fly from the small local airport in Tipton to the East Hampton airport, and it was the best thing ever. (In a telenovela move, he asked for and received (from my mom) one of her father's hairbrushes, but was advised by his lawyer not to get DNA analysis done because...reasons? So we don't know. He very much wishes that my grandfather was his father.)
I've flown in a Piper Cub-type plane before, and been allowed to man the controls. Child the controls, rather, since it hasn't happened since I was maybe 17. But I've never flown in a private plane that size (room for six passengers and a crew of two, which was one person more than I thought would be required). My mom wouldn't have been able to make the trip otherwise so it was really lovely of my step-actual?-uncle to do. It was a Pilatus prop-jet and it was baller. My newfound desire to rightly denominate all the baller things in the world "baller" is inspired by the oldest son of one of my cousins, who is ten. My (undisputed, actual) uncle was showing us his shotgun collection, normally kept in glass-fronted, locked cabinets, and he allowed his grandson Alex to hold one of the guns BUT DONT LET THE BARREL TOUCH THE FLOOR, and even saunter around with it broken open on his arm as though he were hunting grouse. Alex and his first cousin Jack then borrowed checked hunting caps as well, and I overheard Alex say as they sat in the window-seat of the hunting room (everything is painted a creamy dark green, and it's filled with old buffle-head decoys and lacrosse sticks and paddle tennis rackets and deer antlers and 19th-century hunting prints to the point where I think actual wasps are inexorably attracted to it), "this is so baller, you should put it on Instagram."
To be scrupulously fair to Alex, it was totally baller. Those Belgian shotguns with the gorgeous engraving are insane, and some are very old--one was my grandmother's father's! He has black-powder rifles too, but they are decorative. And sixteen-gauge is a thing? Each of the best guns has a little brass sigil on the wooden stock with the initials of its owner. One old Parker sixteen-gauge double shotgun that was my cousin's when he was young is the prettiest slender deadliest gun I've ever seen. It should be a lady's gun, but I think my effort to point out that my sister is a beautiful young lady with a burning love of firearms was wasted. And my uncle keeps lots of his guns permanently at Long Point or in Scotland! He rich as hail, but he has been wonderfully generous to my mother throughout this, which I appreciate very, very much. Last year I thought it would be the last Christmas I ever spent with my mother, and she not even entirely with us, but recovering from surgery in the nursing home. I cried a week ago when she planted bulbs in the cold dirt. For when the spring comes.
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Tim Tebow is a ridiculous person, who loves only Jesus Christ as much as he loves Tim Tebow, but if it's true that he really won't put out because he's saving himself for marriage, then damn, credit for believing what he's preaching.
I know, I know, didn't Labs have a threesome with Tim Tebow and Dikembe Mutombo? Yeah, sure, but that doesn't count, for obvious reasons.
(I'm sure you are discussing this in the comments already but) Why is everyone so obsessed with the motives of the Planned Parenthood terrorist being "unclear"? On what planet is this unclear? Not just the Republican presidential candidates, who are well-understood to be unhinged, but everyone seems to be considering the unclear motives a worthy angle.
It's weird that our gigantically long presidential nomination process and race is itself such a force for destruction (ie by the vile rhetoric with real world consequences, aside from the actual results. Ebola! Ebola! It's Muslims and mole!)
E. Messily writes: I kind of feel like he might be doing some really advanced performance art, like he started out with this "Trump" character assuming that everyone would get the joke, and when they let him run for president instead, he started pushing it harder and harder. To try to let everyone know that it was all a joke. But no one said anything and now he is stuck doing and saying every over-the-top thing he can think of, waiting for someone to notice how unrealistic it all is.
Heebie's take: For a while he was just playing the World's Realest Reality Show game, "Win the Nomination!", but it does feel like the tenor has changed since the Paris attacks.
Also of my kids' interests, I really enjoy dinosaurs.