chichen itza wrap
Itza wrap! Itza bowl! Itza suspiciously Californian restaurant in the Denver airport with lots of yuppie food and a choice of "30 beers from around the world." It's a step up from the usual airport stand with paleolithic sandwiches, certainly, but the only veggie wrap I could find was the "Colorado Sunshine," which was basically a salad with no dressing inside a tortilla. And lots of sprouts.
On the sunny side, I did finish Murakami's A Wild Sheep Chase in the airport. I know I'm a year behind the cutting edge with this Murakami thing as with so much else, but let me add my thumbs-up to the shouting chorus.
My mother and stepfather celebrated their combined fiftieth birthdays yesterday, with a backyard bash 130 guests strong. It was a kegger, mostly populated by middle-aged people I didn't know, so I hit the Sam Adams fairly hard and gave a completely incoherent toast when the cake arrived. Something about how they were born at the precise midpoint of the century, they managed to outlive it, and we hope to see them survive into the Age of Small Robots. Everyone laughed, but I think it was because they'd been told beforehand that I was a writer, so everything I said was bound to be witty.
The party went late, or at least two of the invitees stayed late and traded foot massages and very possibly went home together. At least one of them is married to someone else. Now it's the morning after and my mother is hung over, sitting at the kitchen table and reading all of her fiftieth-birthday cards. "Signs you're fifty: your back goes out more often than you do," etc. One of the gifts was a pair of Lynyrd Skynyrd concert tickets, which are moot as of this morning since their guitarist just died.
Down and out with Beckett in Paris.
