Holding Fourth

The wife ran the Peachtree Road Race this morning, for the umpteenth time. I watched. Later tonight, grilled pork tenderloin with the secret family basting sauce (okay, okay, it’s mostly white vinegar).


Today’s Bleat is particularly lovely, made better by the inclusion of the bane of bottle-rocket warriors everywhere, the dreaded Whistling Moon Travellers. That little pause between the shriek and explosion always freaked me out (unless I was the one doing the shooting, of course).

Read Smash. And this.


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