Letters to Holly

Friday, August 24

The Call of the Colas

I haven't had a Coke or Sprite or any soda since I got back from Atlanta two weeks ago. There are days, like last night, where I crave it. Where the Sprite can sings to me from behind giant jagged rocks. I was dragging, and I dearly wanted the magic sugar syrup. I was good. I rebuked it. But I can still taste it.

The deputy is mesmerized by a piece of the Planet Earth documentary series: A family of ibex butt heads on a  rocky mountainside. He asks for it constantly, and it keeps him in a low gear during meals. I can't count how many times we've seen it, and I don't mind. There's no singing or morals. We've underscored how the headbutting is not something we do by telling him "goats play rough." And that's how he asks for it  -- "want see goats play rough." But he hasn't yet charged another daycare child to establish his alpha status.

We're a week away from going back to Atlanta. Your Sister is just about done with her costume, as am I. She got her boots a few days ago, and my suits come back from the cleaners today. A few tweaks here and there, and we're all set. My Mom will watch the deputy for a few days, and we'll be back in time to have a languorous Labor Day.

I just started inking the October comic, and I'll pimp it tomorrow online, the same day the ad runs in the roller derby program. We're also tailgating tomorrow with friends as a late birthday party for mememe. I also just emailed Malaprop's about them possibly carrying my comics. That would be quite a coup.

The garden has produced giant zucchini and armloads of tomatoes. It's starting to fade, and we'll need to decide what cold crops to try this year. Our habaneros are deadly unless they're smothered in cheese on a homemade pizza.

Picture of the Day
Behind the scenes on Kill Bill.

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