I am writing this from bed with a terrible case of the flu. Send love and Theraflu!
I’ve spent three of the past four days in the city but today’s quick trip was less about meeting people and more checking off my to-do. Today’s jaunt started in SoMa, headed up through the top of the FiDi and into Union Square. And now, I’ve returned home, having done most of my chores in preparation for the new week. It’s a good day. \
I arrived safely at Hartsfield-Jackson Airport in Atlanta. Or Hotlanta, as the locals call it. I’d finally made it to the South, something I’d always wanted to do.
Today is the 4th of July. Independence Day. I woke this morning, cooked myself patriotic pancakes (purple ones, a combination of the distinct lack of red and blue food coloring), then took a long, meandering wander along the canals. I watched people BBQ on their back decks, clothed in red, white or blue (or a combination of both), proudly flying the Stars and Stripes from their second stories. And really, you couldn’t have asked for a more glorious day here in the Bay Area. No one does patriotism quite like Americans. Listening to: Anthonie Tonnon’s new album Successor. Eating: Purple coloured pancakes with Canadian maple syrup Drinking: Chai Doing: Doodlin’ for ‘Murica. It’s a beautiful day for doing as much or as little as you wish. This year, it’s low key. I plan on spending the rest of the day in a food coma, only rousing for some night filming for a new short film I’m working on. Happy Birthday, ‘Murica!
I received specific instructions from the Range Master to be early. Not on time, but early. He knew me too well.
I left for the range at the crack of sparrows. I was running late, no breakfast, wet hair. I pulled out of the driveway and drove against the traffic whilst listening to the dulcet tones of Ira Glass.
I have never held a gun.
I have never learned how they work.
Up until now, I haven’t wanted to know.