Blog of Billy

On the first frigid cold night of the autumn, on the highway just south of I-240, Intrigue clicked on that magic sixth digit in its odometer, and my little baby is now all grown up. In celebration of its coming-of-age, I stole several hours of Charles Brodt's time and learned a little more about how to change brake pads. Though nothing ever quite works as planned, this little adventure only required two trips to Auto Zone, and one to the hardware store to fix a guide pin. My huge thanks to the Brodt family for helping me out with this, and to Gramma for getting me a car that could make it to 100k miles plus. Next on the car-genda: another oil change.

That started out kind of like The Gambler.

On our way up to the high school debate tournament in Stillwater, CB and I saw a Girls Gone Wild bus at the local Mardi Gras club. I've never want to go anywhere less than I want to go to that club now.

The tournament itself was a blast. I only judged one round, but I got to see various people I hadn't for quite some time, like Rasoul showing off pictures of his hundreds and hundreds of Star Wars figures, and Jennie, being her cute wonderful self. Andes Mint pie is never so good as when you eat it in joyful company.

My condolences and thoughts to David and family.

Yay sleep! All in one night, I dreamed that I was tooling around Stillwater with Jennie (in a truck, as usual), bought a house with a huge backyard I hadn't gotten around to actually seeing yet, and rode a horse around Norman. I still don't believe in Freudian dream analysis, as my dreams have always seemed pretty random, and large scale interpretation has been historically fraught with peril. This has the side-effects of making me scared to base religion solely on the all-too-arbitrary Biblical interpretation, and making Lacan, of course, far less compelling.

Hector was the first of the gang with a gun in his hand
And the first to do time, the first of the gang to die.