I don't need a newspaper to tell me that the Blue Angels are in town; yesterday they were zooming over the city and would shake the house. Then, at work, they screamed over the building again and again and...again.
That lady smelled like gasoline...did she bicycle here, through the exhaust of cars? (Exhausted by exhaust?)
That lady smelled like gasoline...did she bicycle here, through the exhaust of cars? (Exhausted by exhaust?)
I worked until close last night; it feels as if I never left this building, since I am here so early. Amy is nuts; she told me to call her when I clocked in this morning so I wouldn't be on my own.
{That girl has very well-developed thigh mucsles. She must be a cyclist...or a regular in the spin classes.}
Yesterday I started reading George Harrison's biography I, Me, Mine. It is quite fascinating; he is now even more my favorite Beatle. I am probably the only person who picked up a book about one of the Beatles because of the introduction. "This book is dedicated to gardeners everywhere." George was a very good and enthusiastic gardener, and he sort of made Ravi Shankar known to the world. Also, it sounds like he had a similar sense of humor to my own; he was a producer for Life of Brian and a very close friend of Eric Idle.
{Whoa! That dude looks just like Fred Willard!}
They must have turned on the heat in here; it smells like burnt hair.
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