I went to hear him read yesterday, leaving only because the back pain would no longer allow standing. And standing there was�around 200 people crammed into the authors� nook at the bookstore in the union. The professor who introduced him made sure to point out that we were lucky, that if it�d been during the school year, we�d never have gotten so close to Dave, which was a perfectly stupid thing to say, I think we all agreed. Wise words from a man who�s convinced his wife to have about a dozen children in the past five years, in a vain attempt to have one manchild.

Whoops�where was I?

Sigh. Dave. I am delighted he exists, that he writes, that he works, that he cares. He was angry about the state of Teach for America funding and the clear hypocrisy of pushing volunteerism and AmeriCorps projects in his State of the Union address, then failing miserably to support the program. And he talked of 826 Valencia, of course. And read a bit from You Shall Know our Velocity, before launching into a delightful tale from the perspective of a 13-year old boy.

But alas, we couldn�t stay for more, because Web had to get to her volunteer job and I had to, well, sit down before I passed out from the intense back pain. (One hates to complain, but she�s considering going to Canada for medical marijuana, if she really has to wait a week and a half to see her doctor.) We left happy and laughing, and that�s a beautiful thing.

Of course Web now wants to borrow YSKOV, since books have been packed and stacked for a good week now. Sigh. I think I can find it.

Packing is wretched. Instead of wishing for fewer things, I�m just wishing for money to pay someone to pack, clean, move, clean, unpack. It�s all so solitary and dull. And in spite of all my late nights and crazy drinking, my clothes are fitting far better than before. There is no time to eat. There is no actual food to eat, save the leftover Pad Thai I made last night, but that�s for work lunches only. It�s naught but field fresh sweet corn and Popsicles at the country home, sandwiched in between fits of furious packing. In a girdle, mind you, so I can exist without wanting to pass out. Must buy back brace. Must help friends move on Saturday, so they�ll return the favor in 2 weeks. 7 days left to finish packing the kitchen, living room, bedroom and bath. Running out of boxes, time, and money.

Remind me again why I�m doing this? And somebody explain to Fuzzy Jesus he needn�t hang out in a box, that I won�t forget to pack him, too.