My good friend Kevin L. O'Mara is a photographer in New Orleans, and I'm currently the featured image on his website, KLOPhoto.com (designed by me, incidentally).


Kevin and I have a long-running inside joke regarding the word citrus, which I'd explain here if I remembered anything about how it started or why it's funny to us. It just is. This picture was taken in one of a handful of cemeteries we visited in New Orleans earlier this month, and Kevin noticed some limes or what have you that had fallen from the trees in the cemetery and got the idea for this picture. I surely do like it.

This is me and my friend Gaétane, whom I pretend is my sister, because we're both (fake) blond and (real) adorable. Incidentally, my real-ass sister Amanda is coming to Paris tomorrow! She's staying with me and Marjorie for a whole week. She doesn't look much like me, or much like Gaétane, for that matter.



This is one of my favorite pieces of crappy graffiti I've ever seen in Paris. The somewhat awkward attempt at swearing in English is charming enough, but it's even more great if you sing it to the tune of No Fun by Iggy and the Stooges. Why, that's the opposite of no fun!



The other night Marjorie and I were awoken by thousands of penny-sized hailstones crashing into our windows! The sudden hail and intense wind and rain blew open our front windows, and within seconds the living room carpet was covered in chunks of ice (seen in the background of this crummy photo). They did a real number on my poor geraniums out on the window sills, too. Fortunately the whole thing only lasted about five minutes. We actually watched an insane neighbor across the street run out into the hailstorm and dance around while someone hung back in the doorway and took pictures; she's lucky she wasn't killed, or at least concussed! Anyway, the hailstones I posted about a couple months ago were, at the time, the biggest I'd ever seen, but these were easily three or four times the size. This was like some end times shit, here.



This is not one of the more aerodynamic planes I've seen, but it looks nice and sturdy.

It's been about seven weeks at the gym now, and everything's going great. I'm still going three times a week, running a little a few times a week, and still eating as much protein as I can get my hands on. I'm still really skinny, but I've definitely added a little bit of muscle mass in the areas I wanted to; mostly my shoulders, arms, and back, but my chest just won't cooperate much, as usual. Anyway, I decided to take some pictures of my progress, and I dug up some old pre-gym pictures as well...

( Still blindingly white and relatively skeletal... )

Thanks for all of your comments on the Toxic Sonic game yesterday! Patrick and I worked a ridiculous sort of Easter egg into the game, which I'm pleased to share with you all now.

1. Start the game in Easy mode.
   
2. When gameplay starts, press Shift-N.
   
3. You'll arrive back at the title screen.
   
4. Start the game again in Easy mode.
   
5. Welcome to Nerd mode.

We never even told the band about this! Someday Alexis is gonna look at my blog and get a surprise.

This picture of me and Marjorie just ended up on Facebook. It's from the "Elvis is Alive" party a few weeks back, at some bar near the Bastille.


This is basically where my hand can be found most of the time.

I should mention, that's Lada with her back to us on the left, and Lady Flo in white.

And here's another picture that I just plain like:


I cut my hair super short a couple days ago for my upcoming trip to la Réunion, and seeing this picture now, I kind of can't believe it was ever that long/tall/crazy, when in fact that's actually my normal length. You know, I walk through my life pretty much not being aware at all that I look weird, and once in a while I see a picture that reminds me. It's always a candid shot where I see how other people see me. Anyway, this sure is one of those times.

Hey, neat, one of Marjorie's colleagues just gave her this picture of us from the Diesel 30th anniversary party back in October. I really like it! I sort of can't believe my head is that huge, but I think that every time I see a picture of me next to anybody. And Marjorie and I are exactly the same height! I must be proportioned like a Tootsie Pop.

Here are a few (stolen) pictures from Megan (abinka)'s New Year's party, the first of two parties we attended that night.


Me, Marjorie, Lady P, Lord Whimsy (lord_whimsy)



Me, Marjorie, Megan (abinka), Jon

You'll notice I was accidentally dressed as my website/LJ icon for the party. We drank good wine and engaged in scintillating conversation, and I should mention that Lady P had made a scrumptious pumpkin-orange bread specifically with me in mind, being aware of my long battle with pumpkin addiction, and I wish I'd had room for the whole thing; it was perhaps the most delicious thing I've ever eaten. I say this without hyperbole. But I digress...

So, Megan's place was the classy party, and just after these photos were taken, M and I hopped into a cab with Steve (fluidbeauty) and Trish to try to make it to our friends Marques and Karen's party for the somewhat-opposite-of-classy-but-equally-awesome party, hopefully before midnight. Our cab driver was a friendly guy named Dave with an indistinct Eastern European accent, and from the backseat I overheard a little of his conversation with Steve (who was riding shotgun), about buying a refurbished Mac. When one of us noted the time and mentioned that it looked like we'd miss the New Year's countdown at Marques and Karen's place up in Fishtown, Dave started driving crazy fast and running red lights trying to get us there, even though we hadn't asked him to and it totally wasn't his fault that we were running a little late. A roadblock down the street from our destination thwarted our chances of being on time by mere seconds; we had Dave drop us off around the corner and the four of us walked/ran through the cold toward Marques and Karen's house. Just before we got there, we heard the countdown and subsequent celebration through the walls of every house on their street, and a few neighbors were coming out into the street with noisemakers and pots and pans exactly as we arrived at the party. We banged on the door and were let in, and before we could properly say hello or begin to take our coats off, champagne glasses (actually, champagne served in old jelly jars) were thrust into our hands by Marques while someone else backed up the Tivo of the Times Square celebration so we could do a second countdown and toast, less than a minute after the real New Year. It was fun imagining what the neighbors made of that, since they certainly heard us the second time through the thin (broken, stripped) walls. We stuck around for an hour or two and then got a ride back into Center City to try to find a cab that would be willing to take us home to Steve and Trish's house in Collingswood, New Jersey.

I don't remember much of the short car ride into Center City, but everything became crystal clear when we stepped out into the freezing cold just around the corner from City Hall, and we all started frantically trying to hail cabs, knowing that A) most of them would be occupied because it was such a busy night, B) some cabbies wouldn't be willing to drive over to Jersey with so many easy fares in Center City. After maybe a dozen cabs went by in quick succession, one pulled over for us. IT WAS DAVE. The same cabbie from earlier that night! He was as excited about the coincidence as we were, and although I didn't hear much of his conversation with Steve, Steve told me later that Dave had said he normally wouldn't have been willing to drive to Jersey, but he made an exception for us because the coincidence was so cool. In the back seat, Trish and I pondered how many cabs would be out that night in Philly; she guessed 300, I guessed 500. Later, Steve told us that Dave said he knew for a fact that there were 1,500 cabs out that night. I don't know anything about statistics, but when you take those 1,500 cabs, and the fact that we found Dave when his car was unoccuppied on New Year's Eve and the fact that we were in a totally different part of town the second time around, the odds seem pretty small that we'd run into him twice in the same night. I dunno, it was super exciting at the time, probably enhanced by the fact that we were drunk and already in a great mood from the parties and the New Year. Dave got us home, we threw a bunch of money at him, and that was that. We got home around 2 or 3am and played drunken Guitar Hero band mode 'til 5am (I mostly played drums) and that was that. A good start to what will certainly be a great year.

Saturday night I went to Diesel clothing's huge 30th birthday party in Paris. Marjorie's been a buyer for Diesel since about the time we met, and I was excited to be invited along to the party at the last minute. They event was enormous and extravagant; they rented out a convention-type room in a stadium on the edge of Paris and turned it into a giant nightclub for three thousand people (and then invited eight thousand). Many of the other Diesel headquarters all over the world celebrated at the same time, with huge video screens on the wall flipping from party to party every couple minutes; Tokyo, London, Amsterdam, Stockholm, Athens, et cetera. There were DJs and crazy lights and weird dancers in weird costumes and a gigantic open bar serving the tiniest drinks in human history. (I weigh 135 pounds and I had eight shots of vodka over the course of a few hours and failed to get even a little bit drunk, if that tells you anything. It's not like I have any kind of tolerance for alcohol; last night I had one generous glass of red wine and felt completely woozy and wanted to tell everybody I loved them.) We were a little bit disappointed and jealous to see that a lot of the other parties had live rock bands, while Paris only had DJs and techno music, but this goes along with my opinion that France is among the least-rocking countries in Europe, and they do love their techno. However, Paris made up for being the un-rocking-est party by also being the party with gorgeous and mostly-naked dancers, which is what they do best. Vive la France. Incidentally, the theme of the party was "XXX," taken from the fact that it was Diesel's 30th birthday and warped into an excuse to use porno chic as the aesthetic for the event (and entirely unrelated to the Vin Diesel film XXX, haha). You may or may not want to check out the hilarious but not-at-all-safe-for-work video invitation, which uses tons of porno clips with crappy cartoon animation mixed in to creatively cover up all the nudity and sex.


The party was open to employees of Diesel, their guests, and a few thousand winners of free tickets. I've never been amongst such a group of beautiful, exquisitely-dressed people in my life. Marjorie and I were both freaking out the day before and the day of the party about what to wear, and I told her I was actually grateful she invited me at the last minute because if I'd known about the party for a couple weeks I'd have been stressed out the whole time. I've been rocking suits (or least a jacket and tie) every day for a very long time now, and I wasn't exactly casual before then, and all of that makes it much harder to feel more dressed up than usual when there's a special occasion. I wanted Marjorie to tell me what to wear since it was her event at her relatively new job and I wanted to impress her boss and colleagues exactly as she'd want me to. She, of course, told me to wear whatever I wanted and stressed that I should think rock n' roll, which told me this wasn't a suit kind of affair. So I wore a t-shirt for the first time in ages, and my stupid black and white striped pants and black and white polka dot scarf and white alligator shoes. Parisians, while typically much better-dressed than Americans, are also generally much more conservative in their style, and I stood out a bit more than I expected to. Over the course of the night, I got photographed by the staff photographers a zillion times, ended up on the big screen once or twice, and at least five different strangers asked if they could take pictures of/with me. These were the folks you could tell had won the free tickets; they were wide-eyed and excited and seemed a little bit out of their element and I'm absolutely sure they had heard there would be stars at the party and wanted to take my picture just in case so they could show their friends later and ask them if this jerkoff was famous or not. Incidentally, I'm barely familiar with any French celebrities so I have no idea if I saw or even talked to any French stars, but I did hear afterward that Sarkozy's son had been in attendance, woo-hoo, blah.

The party started out not crowded enough to feel like a party, which is normal (and you can see this in the photos below) and then when it finally did pick up and get crowded and hot and loud, there was still something missing; it's possible the room was simply too big to feel like a club and not a tradeshow, and the line at the bar was so long and the drinks were so small, nobody could get drunk enough to forget they were mingling with work people. So we cut out relatively early, maybe about 2am, and took a taxi back to the Marais. Then we went out for crepes in the neighborhood and went to sleep, amazed that it was Saturday night and we'd been at out a huge party but were not drunk or exhausted and the sun wasn't up yet. It was actually a pleasant change. I wonder how many Parisians' Flickr pages I'm on now? (Answer: ha ha ha, good Googling, zantimisfit! There's a great gallery of somebody's party photos here.)

( A few more pictures from Marjorie's iPhone... )

Last night while my roommates were being recruited by Kiss, I prepared for my trip to the States that's coming up way too fast (tomorrow). I always back up my computer before I fly, you know, so if Air India flight 191 crashes in the ocean and I'm eaten by sharks, at least my clients will still be able to track down their Photoshop files on my external drive in Paris. Anyway, whilst computering, I remembered I had a stack of poorly-labeled cds I'd been meaning to sort through and figure out, and I discovered that one of them was a huge collection of photos from my friend Frederick. Frederick is my colleague in Philly; we worked in the office together for about five years and nowadays I see him whenever I'm in town, since he still works at the same company and they're now my biggest freelance client. Frederick is one of those guys who always has his digital camera in hand and is always snapping photos of everything all the time. Since he and I went to lunch together most days, I ended up in hundreds of his pictures, and I'd asked him to burn me a cd of them one time when I was back in Philly recently, and I guess I forgot he actually did that and gave it to me; I never realized I had the thing 'til last night. So I went through all of the photos while my computer was backing (that ass) up, and some of them are great and some of them are hilarious.


First, interestingly, I ran across this photo (above) of me in Rittenhouse Square in the snow in 2004. It's the same photo that was later printed out and hung up at my going away party at the office in 2005, which is the photo I ran across on another colleague's Facebook gallery a few days ago.



Then I found this photo (above) that was taken a few months later in the same park; we worked literally across the street from the park and cut through there every day on our way to lunch. Those of you who knew me at the time will probably remember I came down chickenpox that spring, and this photo must have been taken right after I returned to work, because you can see one of my last remaining spots on my cheek there. I have a small, smooth white scar there now, one of about five left on my body by that terrible week of chickenpox. I swear I didn't scratch!

I bought those horrible women's sunglasses at a vintage shop in New Orleans and wore the heck out of 'em. I was devastated when they broke a couple years later.


( A bunch more riduculous photos, all out of order and stuff... )

For a few years now, I've had a feature on the About Me page of my website where random photos of me are displayed each time the page is loaded. (It's the ghetto-est web wizardry of all time; I just name the images numerically and have a couple lines of javascript that call a random number from 1 to x and tack ".jpg" on the end.) I started out with maybe twenty pictures, and I add a few more from time to time whenever someone (usually me!) takes an especially flattering or glamorous or interesting or funny picture of me. It's really indefensibly vain of me, but it's fun.

Today I added the 100th picture of me to the random rotation. Balloons with my  face  abs on them fell out of the ceiling and everything.

I keep a hidden page with all the pictures together on it, just to keep track all of them. It's a weird walk down vanity lane, mostly chronomologicamable, sometimes not, with many changing hairstyles and hair colors, questionable fashion statements, exotic locales, inexplicable circumstances and behaviors, et cetera. For me it's mostly just a heartbreaking look at all the sunglasses I've lost or broken over the years. Anyway, the page with all one hundred pictures together is here, if you'd like to see. Like that weepy Hindenburg announcer guy said, "Oh, the huge vanity..."

I've been going running in hilly Montmartre every other day or so for a few weeks now. I hadn't been running at all since last summer in New Jersey when I hurt my knee so bad I had to stop for a few months (which turned into all of autumn and winter). The weather in Paris is finally absolutely amazing, and I love being outside and feeling like I'm not being lazy and old and fat.

The only thing I hate about going running is wearing normal-people clothes.


Here's me stretching before running, with no product in my hair and sporting the least-terrible of all the terrible sneakers and terrible gym clothes available down the street at Tati (basically France's K-Mart). Not shown: tiny orange iPod chock full of Marilyn Manson and Iggy Pop. You can see how the dead animals on the wall are so disgusted with my attire they can't even ( look at me. ) This is my price for being in shape.


And here are a couple pictures I took in my Metro station the other day ( that didn't come out great but so what... )

This is how we barbecue in France.

My roommate Lada knocked on my bedroom door Saturday morning to invite me a barbecue outside Paris in the not-quite-countryside, not-quite-suburbs, at the beautiful summer home of our friend Lisa...

( A feast for the eyes; vanity, food, and the Loch Ness Monster... )

Me and my friend Carly


Me and my friend Coffee

Carly's mom is visiting her in Paris, so I took the two of them on a brief tour of Pigalle and Montmartre the other day. Carly has some more pictures from their visit to my neighborhood — and some much more interesting pictures from their time in Rome and Venice (sans moi, of course) — here. But anyway, the above photos are from when we stopped for coffee at a cafe on the Rues des Abbesses, a stone's throw from Van Gogh's apartment.

I never drank coffee in my life 'til about six months ago. Okay, well, that's not exactly accurate; I was never a coffee drinker 'til about six months ago. I had a sip of my mom's coffee once when I was about ten years old and totally freaked out at how gross it was. It tasted like getting punched in the spine. I vowed never to drink coffee again.

Fast forward about twenty years and I'm in Bosnia in August 2006. Normally I always drink tea to wake up in the morning, but every time I ordered tea in Sarajevo I was served some sort of bright red herbal tea without caffeine*. Turns out black tea is not at all popular and therefore non-existent (or at least somewhat rare) in that region. So I started drinking Bosnian coffee in the morning, which is a pretty neat experience. It's super strong and there's a semi-elaborate ritual to preparing/serving/drinking it. And best of all, it comes with candy! So I got used to coffee in Bosnia and drank it every day for the month or so that I was in the Balkans, but then I stopped drinking it when I returned to France.

Then I went back to America for the better part of a year, and then returned to France last year. For some reason I decided to start drinking normal French coffee this time, part of an effort to try to get used to more typical French stuff and let go of some of my American habits (although I suppose drinking tea is actually a very very English habit; no idea how that happened). I actually like coffee now, and that's great as I'm always happy to acquire a new taste and thereby expand the realm of things I enjoy. Wine was easy, coffee not too bad. Absinthe, now, that's been a tough one.


* Fun fact: The French call the stimulant in coffee (café) caféine and in tea (thé) it's théine. I have no idea why they make this distinction and we don't. Note: It does not follow that the stimulant in Coca-Cola is cocaine. Not these days, anyway.

My beautiful friend Alexandra is one of the few people I know who likes being photographed (and likes photographing herself) as much as I do. I have agreed to make her extremely famous by posting her pics in my blog. These were taken the other night as a bunch of us were getting ready to go out. The other folks present, including her man, all ran and hid as soon as the camera came out.


My roommate Lada has informed me several times in the last week that I need a haircut. She may be right.

( Two more... )

In the future everyone will be Andy Warhol for fifteen minutes.


I get the idea to take this picture every single day during the five-second period between blowdrying my hair and putting hairspray in. I don't even particularly like Andy Warhol very much. I just had to get this thing out of my system.

( Photoshoppery notes and other miscellany... )

It was very tempting to call this entry Songs for Krulla but that's just too obscure.

In between errands today I hung out with (my friend Andrea and) Serge Gainsbourg.


Here's Serge's grave at the Cimitière du Montparnasse. Someone apparently left a cabbage in reference to the song/album L'homme à tête de chou. No relation to petit_chou.



Serge's house, a couple streets below the river, due south of the Louvre. I don't think he was the one who decorated it like that. (It rained on us a bunch so my hair isn't as huge as usual. My apologies.)

( Here is a wonderful song by Serge Gainsbourg back when he really had it goin' on. )

And here are a million more on YouTube.

What's your best thrift store find of all time? Mine is a tie with little New Jerseys on it. I bought it for a dollar — which, honestly, is a complete rip-off for a tie with little New Jerseys on it — at Village Thrift in Pennsauken, NJ, about ten years ago. You can imagine my delight! Years later, the tie got packed away at my mom's house when I first moved to France in March of 2005, and I forgot all about it. Then, last time I was in town I was rooting around for something in my boxes in Mom's garage (my giant earrings, if you must know) and happened upon the tie, and decided to bring it back to Paris with me.



( Closeup... )

... And while we're at it, new(-ish) ( shoes. ) Pay no mind to the pink stripes on my socks. I'd... I'd hoped you wouldn't have to see that.

I'm committing the cardinal sin here of wearing black with (three slightly different shades of) blue. You'll note however that I look awesome anyway. Like I always say with regard to fashion, I (or you!) can make anything work. Or, all things are possible with Christ, take your pick.

Some interesting stuff in the background of the first photo, now that I look at it: On the wall on the left that's a Venetian carnival mask made by Aaron Cromie as a thank-you for the website I designed for him, and over on the right you can halfway see lord_whimsy's book, The Affected Provincial's Companion, Volume One, which was a gift from abinka. And I think you've seen all the rest of this junk in my original post about my pink bedroom. As is dictated by my somewhat vagabond-esque lifestyle, I try not to accumulate a lot of non-clothing possessions, but beautiful and interesting things keep finding their way into my life, and I'm not going to argue with that.

You think that's scary? Listen, kid, I've seen things that would make your hair turn very, very light yellow...

 

( Bigger, blonder... )

I hereby conclude my one-year (and then some) experiment with keeping my natural hair color. Whew. It's good to be back; before I started this experiment in December 2006, I hadn't seen my real hair color in a good six or seven years. I'd forgotten how hard it is to bleach all the natural redness out of my hair; this undertaking today involved three actual bleaching sessions, two bleach kits, three showers, and a total of about two hours with the decolorant in my hair, and it's still nowhere near as white as I was going for. I'll give my scalp a break and continue in a few days. Fortunately my individual hairs are super thick and don't break too easily from all the bleaching; two hours is way, way, way too long to leave harsh chemicals like this in your hair. You hear horror stories about people's hair breaking off completely after leaving the bleach in for an hour or so. I've been lucky so far. It's going to take a while to get used to being this blond again. I have to remember how to do the things that blonds are supposed to do, like be stupid and also sleep with everyone. I don't know which of those is going to be more difficult for me.

As they pulled me out of the oxygen tent, I asked for the latest party. Holy shit, what a weekend. Okay, let's do pictures first, then stories...

My friend Carly (flyingnakedtofu) drew me and Alexis! We posed on the couch and pretended we were a rock n' roll band. Oh wait, we kind of are.

(Click for bigger version)

( A couple closeups... )

The drawing is beautiful but the photos of it came out pretty bad; sorry about that. It's hanging in a hallway that's too narrow to allow a nice straight shot, and the area doesn't get much light. But it really looks incredible in the apartment, you can take my word for it. It's huge! About four or five feet across.

I asked Carly to take a couple pictures of us while we were being drawn (but not quartered)...

Rock and roll.

( A couple more... )

And that was all just Sunday night! Okay, backing up here... Friday I worked on that poster for The Dead Sexy Inc. pretty much all day long and I kind of lost my mind, as is normal when one draws and Photoshops all day and doesn't eat or drink or interact with human beings. After I finally finished the drawing, Alexis asked me to go catch a late showing of John Rambo with him, and so we did, and it was glorious. We went out to our favorite bar afterward (the one with the crazy pianist from the other night) and drank to John Rambo and to the United States of America; I like to think Rambo would've kicked our queer absinthe-drinking Parisian asses for that. We also talked about band names and songs and touring and all that junk. I'm feeling really good creatively right now, after a pretty long dark period.

Saturday afternoon was mostly uneventful, and then that night I went out dancing at a silly goth party near the Bastille. I went with my friends, and ran into a few more friends there, which is always an amazing feeling; I actually know a few people in this city. The party was a little bit dead (and not just in the goth/Crypt Keeper way), but I had a good time and ended up taking the Metro home at 7am, completely exhausted and drunk on cowboy whiskey. I'd met an interesting French lady at the club who had lived in Japan and was interested in comic books, and she gave me her phone number, but I guess I was drunker than I thought I was when I entered it into my phone, because the next day I went to look for it and all I had was her name and "06," which are the first two digits of every cell phone number in Paris. I despaired at this, because I really and truly don't have enough actual French friends and it's very hard for me to make a connection like that here, but later on Alexis said, "Hey man, you have the first two numbers! You need only the other eight! Just try every combination." Not a bad idea. Anyway, when I got home I thought I'd lost my septum tusk, and I told Alexis as I searched around the house. He soon yelled from the living room, "I found it!" But it turned out he'd made me a new one out of aluminum foil. Fortunately I found the real one a little later.

I slept for a few hours Sunday morning and then had to get up for Courtney's (kocici's) surprise birthday brunch! Agnes had just invited me the previous afternoon. So I crawled over there with a bag of fresh croissants in hand, and spent the afternoon eating a tremendous amount of food (Agnes made American-style pancakes! I think that's illegal here) and lounging around with a few Americans, one Irish woman, one French woman, and a German/American/completely international offspring of an American diplomat who had the most unusual and un-placeable accent I've ever heard. I was the only boy, as usual. Then we tried to go for a walk at Pere Lachaise cemetery, but it was just closing, as were my eyelids, so I dragged myself home again around 6pm. I thought I'd just finish some work, show Alexis the acoustic/country arrangement of Diamond Dogs that I'm working on for us to play, and then go right to bed, but then we ended up doing the big drawing session and then going out for sushi. Alexis and I actually both fell asleep on each other a couple times during our sitting, which is probably adorable. I finally went to bed around 1am and slept for ten hours. I feel like I've been reborn.

My friends Eric Zino and his wife Bridget are visiting Paris this week! I've known Eric and Bridget since we all worked together at a public library in New Jersey when we were in highschool. Eric was the writer of first two comic book series I ever worked on, Jerkbox & Punk'nhead and Silicon Valley of the Kings (which are being translated into French as we speak, for a new publication this Spring!). I hadn't seen the guy in about six years until my get-together at Tattooed Mom's in Philly a couple weeks ago, and that's when he told me he was coming to Paris soon. So, Eric e-mailed me the other day to tell me they'd arrived, and he gave me the phone number of the cousin they're staying with; he's got family here, which is pretty amazing. I just got off the phone with him a minute ago (let's get off phones...), and we're going to have lunch in Montmartre tomorrow! It's truly fascinating how things work out; it's funny to imagine telling the seventeen-year-old versions of us where we'd all end up fifteen years later. This is a game I play in my head a lot.

So that's my weekend (bleeding over into Monday morning). How was yours?