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Jun. 27th, 2010
Yesterday day was filled with two parties.
One, in Blaine, was quite near the ends of the earth. I could not quite see the giant turtle upon whose back those elephants stand, nor was there any appreciable cooling from the deep blackness o' space, but still I was convinced the end was near. It was a house warming for a friend whose ex worked at Lord Fletcher's. Getting there was complicated by the closing of 35W, which Google Maps seemed unaware of. Still using Sprint, some things were still possible, and, were it not for that final right turn it suggested, I made it easily enough. Like a Yeats's poem, the names and order of our streets is set where the magical Nicollet crosses Our Country's Founder, Washington. It's 0,0 Mpls, but then out in the wastelands, it's as if rival time agents have subverted the divine order laid down by the Founders, and the streets rearrange themselves beyond any common sense or sense of decency. The pattern does not hold. I arrived, met the new SO, saw a matched set of cast-burdened teens, and returned via the open stretch of 35W back into the confining heat-bubble of the city. Lyndale was a mess, something with some kinda thing going on in Loring Park, and a mass of Marching Dykes by the Walker. (I know we've been getting a lot of rain, but I'm not sure that movable dykes are going to save anybody if the Mississippi washes over us... after all, look at New Orleans!)
Two, two blocks away, where the cold of space is held back by the heat bubble, and a convenient light show was being put on by TPTB. Being afraid of melting in our current tropical downpours, I drove. I also reread the invitation which requested Finest Evening Wear, so I had to change from my casual yellow Hawaiian shirt to my formal black Hawaiian shirt -- the one with the pretty pink birds that shall remain unnamed. It also said that food was going to be provided, but never one to follow instructions, I took my fava bean pate, sans chianti, and drove. A fine time it was. I enjoyed the vicarious pleasure of listening to two cooks deconstruct the pate, which was better than the one I'd brought to the same house quite some time ago (and retrieved the bowl that that pate was in before I left). The food was excellent. Warmed figs with chevere, quail, tarts, tartlets, and many, many cocktails.
One, in Blaine, was quite near the ends of the earth. I could not quite see the giant turtle upon whose back those elephants stand, nor was there any appreciable cooling from the deep blackness o' space, but still I was convinced the end was near. It was a house warming for a friend whose ex worked at Lord Fletcher's. Getting there was complicated by the closing of 35W, which Google Maps seemed unaware of. Still using Sprint, some things were still possible, and, were it not for that final right turn it suggested, I made it easily enough. Like a Yeats's poem, the names and order of our streets is set where the magical Nicollet crosses Our Country's Founder, Washington. It's 0,0 Mpls, but then out in the wastelands, it's as if rival time agents have subverted the divine order laid down by the Founders, and the streets rearrange themselves beyond any common sense or sense of decency. The pattern does not hold. I arrived, met the new SO, saw a matched set of cast-burdened teens, and returned via the open stretch of 35W back into the confining heat-bubble of the city. Lyndale was a mess, something with some kinda thing going on in Loring Park, and a mass of Marching Dykes by the Walker. (I know we've been getting a lot of rain, but I'm not sure that movable dykes are going to save anybody if the Mississippi washes over us... after all, look at New Orleans!)
Two, two blocks away, where the cold of space is held back by the heat bubble, and a convenient light show was being put on by TPTB. Being afraid of melting in our current tropical downpours, I drove. I also reread the invitation which requested Finest Evening Wear, so I had to change from my casual yellow Hawaiian shirt to my formal black Hawaiian shirt -- the one with the pretty pink birds that shall remain unnamed. It also said that food was going to be provided, but never one to follow instructions, I took my fava bean pate, sans chianti, and drove. A fine time it was. I enjoyed the vicarious pleasure of listening to two cooks deconstruct the pate, which was better than the one I'd brought to the same house quite some time ago (and retrieved the bowl that that pate was in before I left). The food was excellent. Warmed figs with chevere, quail, tarts, tartlets, and many, many cocktails.