Declarative Sentences for a Friday

My great aunts in Brighton, with whom I spent drinking champagne & eating Chinese food on my 21^st birthday, do not know what to make of the bombings in London. Anyone who knows what to make of the bombings in London, please let me know and I shall pass the information along. The younger one (83) is a crazy leftist; the older one is a statist (87) who thinks she is semi-royalty because she married a low-level diplomat in Ecuador. They survived the Blitz. For some reason, I associate the way they smelled with Englishness.

I was in Italy on 9/11. I don’t like to write that: “9/11.” I do not know exactly why. Milan, Italy – to be exact – is where I was. I drank like six bottles of wine in a day and a half, staring at the television like an invalid and occasionally rolling up a cig the size of a ballpoint pen. That seems like a decade ago. Entire worlds have since emerged and departed.

I like to read Christopher Hitchens because he tells me how lucky the world is to have Christopher Hitchens. I go to him for my weekly dose of gloating and I-told-you-so. I wonder if he likes being the portly, hyperdiscursive guy he is. I am not one of those people who decry his policy stances of late and yearn for the old Hitch. I just like to observe him, and to hear him recount prior stances he held and previous gifts he bequeathed to the world.

This weekend I am going to that place pictured above and to the right of where your eyes are now.

I am an escape artist of late. Summer camp is almost over, so the need to branch out, go forth, and make memories has grown. This entire exercise should serve as a warning to anyone who is not cognizant of the dangers of self-absorption.