I think I can get another day out of these pants. There's what feels like dried ice cream above the pocket; pecan pie perhaps. Been thinking lately about a meal I once ate in Bamako: fresh rabbit saddles on polenta, the stiff kind. Our hosts had imported a few cases of delicious wine from France. They weren't Malians; they were from Vermont and still owned a house there even though they'd lived in Africa for the better part of a decade. While C- was there one night someone stole a hundred dollar bill out of her wallet, which was lying on a dresser in the guest bedroom. A guardian was accused of the theft and fired. But objects continued to disappear from their villa. A year later it was discovered that their beloved maid, in their employ for years and years and who had raised their children, had been stealing from them throughout.
I'm waiting to piss off a bike messenger. Those kids get and have gotten a lot of crit in my time, some of it deserved, most of it not--the track bike snobs have not yet been able to answer my question, to wit: why ride a bike with no brakes, a bike that is brakeless because it was meant to be bird-bone light for the tilted gleaming racetracks of old europe, today, in Baltimore or San Fran?--anyway I can't use backpacks anymore (my arms fall asleep) and have summarily come down with a messenger pack and we'll see who has 'tude and who will let me pass.