Found a place to call your own and a reason to stay there
Rabbit, rabbit! Man, June went faster than I thought.
Yesterday I spent the early afternoon with![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gaudior and Fox at Wilson Farm's 32nd Annual Strawberry Festival, where we sampled strawberry shortcake, strawberry milk, strawberry soup, strawberry relish, and a skewer of chocolate-dipped strawberries, none of which prevented Fox from absolutely going to town on a box of plain fresh-picked strawberries on the way home. He had had his face painted like a blue lion at the festival and looked innocently predatory, splashed with the gore of his prey. We got out of the parking lot just as the monsoons began. I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening with selkie and Rami and my godchild and an assortment of other queer parents and their children all hanging out in a turn-of-the-twentieth-century house in Arlington; there was pizza. Time did not actually melt like projector-stuck film now that Selkie and I have seen one another three times in a six-month interval, which bodes well for future interaction. I came home and spatch showed me Bugsy Malone (1976) because it was about to expire from Criterion and all I have to say right now is that the '70's were an amazing time in filmmaking.
Tonight I just finished eating the salad I have been desperately jonesing for all day—I'd previously eaten the last nectarine, all the artichoke hearts left in the refrigerator and half the jar of red peppers, and a fistful of dried kiwis, otherwise known as damn near all the fruits and vegetables we had in the house. (It was a narrow escape for the canned peaches.) Fortunately, Mortadella Head came to my rescue. Their Italian Cobb salad was exactly what I wanted, especially in this heat, and I am pleased to note that the totally-eat-something-bigger-than-your-head aesthetic so in evidence in their slices of pizza extends to their subs and salads as well. Rob ate perhaps three-quarters of his meatball sub and that was like two sandwiches for most people.
Tomorrow I will be attending this protest against ICE and the concentration camps which I do not want to call ours, but which are in my country, so it is my responsibility to do something about them. I hope it's a crowd.
Yesterday I spent the early afternoon with
gaudior and Fox at Wilson Farm's 32nd Annual Strawberry Festival, where we sampled strawberry shortcake, strawberry milk, strawberry soup, strawberry relish, and a skewer of chocolate-dipped strawberries, none of which prevented Fox from absolutely going to town on a box of plain fresh-picked strawberries on the way home. He had had his face painted like a blue lion at the festival and looked innocently predatory, splashed with the gore of his prey. We got out of the parking lot just as the monsoons began. I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening with selkie and Rami and my godchild and an assortment of other queer parents and their children all hanging out in a turn-of-the-twentieth-century house in Arlington; there was pizza. Time did not actually melt like projector-stuck film now that Selkie and I have seen one another three times in a six-month interval, which bodes well for future interaction. I came home and spatch showed me Bugsy Malone (1976) because it was about to expire from Criterion and all I have to say right now is that the '70's were an amazing time in filmmaking.Tonight I just finished eating the salad I have been desperately jonesing for all day—I'd previously eaten the last nectarine, all the artichoke hearts left in the refrigerator and half the jar of red peppers, and a fistful of dried kiwis, otherwise known as damn near all the fruits and vegetables we had in the house. (It was a narrow escape for the canned peaches.) Fortunately, Mortadella Head came to my rescue. Their Italian Cobb salad was exactly what I wanted, especially in this heat, and I am pleased to note that the totally-eat-something-bigger-than-your-head aesthetic so in evidence in their slices of pizza extends to their subs and salads as well. Rob ate perhaps three-quarters of his meatball sub and that was like two sandwiches for most people.
Tomorrow I will be attending this protest against ICE and the concentration camps which I do not want to call ours, but which are in my country, so it is my responsibility to do something about them. I hope it's a crowd.
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Or: Probably not, but I'm really tempted even if it makes no sense.
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If you improbably make it, shout until you find me, and otherwise protest well in Central Falls!