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).
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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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