Guess who saw Chuck Berry last night??! All I can say is that I hope I'm that active when I'm fifty, and he's almost eighty. He's still duckwalking across the stage, screwing with his musicians by changing to odd keys in the middle of their solos, bringing people on stage, making mildly lewd jokes, and embarassing his son (who played rhythm guitar) with acclaim.

I'm busy packing for Iowa right now. I love you all. I'm sorry that I haven't posted anything worth reading for a while, but I promise to do better when I get back. I know I say that every time, but this time I'll have two weeks of living amongst writers under my belt.

As for the tattoo, it would be a simple and unobtrusive one, probably in a place that most people wouldn't see (and I don't mean a place covered by underwear). A little black mark.

My poor Harry got some strange sickness that baffled the doctors, and they took six blood samples and sent him home empty-handed. Harry went to the country sick as ever and lightheaded from the loss of blood (he has really low blood pressure anyway) and I felt vaguely helpless.

My sister has pretty much convinced my dad to go to Libya with her at the end of the summer, so it looks like I'll be spending a week in Paris with my mom and abuela. We all like to do the same things--shop, see plays and operas, eat good food, explore the city--so we're a good combination.

The last thing I'm going to do before I leave is shoot pool, eat ice cream, talk with my sister and maybe watch some Seinfeld at night. Just to celebrate being me.