Dancing last Friday night at a club with my wife — and I can't remember the last time — was absolutely bloody wonderful, despite the drunk who wanted to show how much he liked me by "playfully" punching me in the side and on the arm, even after repeated and increasingly vehement suggestions that he not do so, even after I held him up by his shirt and threatened bodily harm (can't remember ever doing that), which only interrupted him for a while, long enough for me to calm down and get the bouncer. Even that could not spoil the evening.
Even the fact that Friday's secret went only OK — no "no," but not yet a "yes" — could not dampen the evening. I love to dance, and I really love to dance with Deana. I'm really, really tired of living away from her and our girls. Even our newly acquired teenaged boy.
On a perhaps less mysterious note, I need to learn how to play volleyball like an old fart.
The play Reb Livingston, Matt Shindell, and I are writing and will be performing (first reading, dress rehearsal, and opening night) on the Lucipo tour this Wednesday at Red Emma's is about done. Y'all come.
7:10:36 PM 
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