back to school
That's right, folks, pack up your Davy Jones lunchboxes and have your moms write your names on your underwear. Classes start in six days and right now it's rush week at the sororities, several of which are within spitting distance of my place. Every time I step outside, there are gaggles of coeds in tank tops standing beside their designated bus and comparing lip gloss.
Last night I stepped off the plane to see Marlowe and Peyton holding a big cardboard sign:
WELCOME HOME FROM BETTY FORD, PAUL!!!
Then we went outside to find Vu performing this odd swaying dance beside his car, singing along with Patsy Cline's greatest hits. My friends.
Today, while I register for classes and pay bills and hang up shirts, think about this burgeoning thing called Post-Neo-Dadaism.
