A good thing, or two.

I'm fortified with Yo's delicious tofu and rice.

Last night Ben and I went to Yur's for some french fries and a drink. The Spurs were playing the Pistons in the final game of the season and the bartender had money on the Spurs. So we celebrated by turning off their TV a couple minutes 'til the buzzer. Ha. When the fans were freaking out, the other bartender said,
"Watch the other fucking TV, it's bigger anyway." Ha.

We headed over the river and through the woods and dropped the car off at home, then walked down to Fire on the Mountain for some take-out Buffalo Chicken salad, which is fantastic. [Fire on the Mountain has an amazing draught beer selection--Roots IPA, a new brewery on Hawthorne; Terminal Gravity IPA, my favorite; Caldera, from my hometown; Amnesia, the favorite neighborhood beer place.] We drank beers while we waited and read completely out-of-date Trivial Pursuit questions. Apparently in the mid-80s things in the world were veeeeery different. I don't remember because I was too busy watching Dallas and dancing to Madonna.

Salad in bag, we walked to the park so that I could fly my kite in the dying light and weak wind. Though I thoroughly enjoyed my beach kite-flying experience, I feel that flying a one-stringer in a field is the way to go. I mean, that's really my kind of kite flying.

You run so fast because you must and if you slow the kite falters and so you run until you can't breathe or you run out of field or you trip over a baseball that kids left on the diamond. The kite, out of wind, slowly meanders to the ground. You roll up that string and do it all over again. When you feel the kite rise into the air and that tug in your hand, it's good to whoo-hoo because the kite likes it.

I found three baseballs near the pitcher's mound, so I pitched 'em all. Two strikes, one ball, I think. Which reminds me that I'm mad at Matt because he went to a game last night and didn't call me. Dummy. Oh well, I wouldn't want to cramp his style with the ladies. Heh. Oh, and I figured out why Ben despises baseball. He grew up in the Carolina's and them southerners ain't got no real baseball. They're all about crazy college crap down thar. We're just wondering what a tarheel is.

To wrap it up: we ate salad, went home, drank vodka, and tried to get Mikah drunk while he fished for kittens.

I found this thing that is very inspiring:
When Wes Anderson was making the Royal Tenenbaums, he asked his brother Eric to draw out his [Wes'] ideas. He always kept notebooks, etc., with his ideas, but would usually find them after the movie was made. So Wes and Eric Anderson and their amazing brains created a crazy lovely world. It's like Edward Gorey, but sweeter. And with Ben Stiller.