The past two weeks saw a blowout wedding in Washington, DC (where we rubbed elbows with Jack Black and Paul Rudd and drank Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Honey – GET SOME), and another wedding in Philadelphia, in which the best man was “flown” down the stairs to the Top Gun theme song to deliver his speech, and dance moves were measured in how sweat-soaked the Mr.’s tie was by the end of the night (3 inches past the Windsor knot. Life record?). There were Halloween-appropriate power outages in the suburbs where we visited my family, Chromeo proved impressive at the Electric Factory, Wayne & Garth, a fleet-footed and friendly caped luchador, a lost leather jacket, and 6 servings of PopChips and York patties between two people on the plane ride home. Not saying who. And this after watching my mom’s demonstration of how many grams of fat are in a burger and fries, represented by scoops of 20-year old Crisco. (More on that later). The flight attendant was not impressed by the crumbs.
We’re going to see Childish Gambino tonight at the House of Blues. I’m excited, because he’s got the smartest lyrics I’ve heard in forever, all peppered with generation Y references. The kind of lyrics you feel smart after you’ve figured them out, if you can get past all the extremely explicit stuff. And there’s a lot of it. So we’ll see.
Oh, and I start a new job on Monday.
Life feels a little like this right now, minus the static bar:
So my four readers (cough direct relations cough) will notice a backlog in posts that won’t last long, because I had this for breakfast:
Recipe: Fry an egg in butter or olive oil, over easy, and serve with/on anything. In this case, polenta with a few tablespoons of spaghetti sauce because you haven’t had time to go to the grocery store. Salt and pepper. Inhale while very warm, and then face life with a full belly and a smile.