Leo 16°

I am truly happy we stayed an extra day; we hadn’t planned on it. We awoke first thing Monday morning all packed and ready to go and by the time we finished our coffee we were slightly unpacking having moved rooms. We went to Belfast for the morning have missed a ferry and waiting ninety minutes. It wasn’t a fun trip into town but it was enough to hit home the fact that we love it in Belfast for sure. And it is definitely an affordable reality. I so need a change. I so need to say goodbye to the past in a significant way. I will always love Provincetown and the Cape but I think perhaps I’ve had my fill of both for awhile. And I can always visit for festivals; anyway I am there for another year at least. I really want this to be a fruitful time.

Here at Kirstie’s I’ve learned one thing and that is that it is good to have specific taste. I don’t necessarily love her taste but I love the strength and potency of it. I am at a place where I need to make choices. I feel like I used to have an aesthetic and now I’m not terribly sure. It’s been so long since I’ve exercised it and I’ve always had to comprise for money. I’m not doing that this time around. I’d rather have no furniture or belongings than have things that don’t match me.

Last night in Islesboro. Trying not to lose this feeling. Must keep it with me henceforth. I really know I love it up here; I just have to find the perfect place on the water like this and I will explore and explore until I find it.

[then a week went by whereby I returned “home” only to be made sick to my stomach by the usual dealings. I am indeed keeping that trip to Maine alive in my mind and spirit. I know I need to find some corner of that wonderful cool-aired world. I’m so saddened and sickened by what is happening in Provincetown. The gentrification is out of control.]

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*

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Leo 15°

Again one of those moments where I’ve caught up completely on these Blagues. Not that I want anyone to read any of them anytime soon. I think what I realize is that I will go to any length to achieve a certain feeling. I’m talking about myriad things all at once. The first year of the Blague was so much about writing everyday and using the Sabian Symbols to movitivate me in that process. If you don’t know what the Sabian Symbols are tough luck, bub, look it up. Or just read the first 366 entries of the Cosmic Blague.

I tried the next year to write consistently but didn’t. I didn’t feel compelled to, necessarily; but then something happened year three where I felt compelled, once again, to write as many Blagues as there are degrees in the Zodiac (360), which means I get five days off in a non-leap-year. I think too much and other things that rhyme, of this I am aware. So I must be prudent in the way I approach any given day, project or experience. I do believe I might alienate people as a result of being too on them. And so sensitive when someone suggests I’m doing something wrong. Alarmist. Is that the word? I dunno but I do have a way of losing friends and alienating people. And for making friendships with people who do the same.

So it’s a Full Moon tomorrow…

From a website, edited by me into something else:

Tonight, much of the Eastern Hemisphere will be treated to a partial eclipse of the moon Monday (Aug. 7) — a prelude to the grand spectacle that awaits North Americans exactly two weeks later.

 Even if you’re not in the path of the partial lunar eclipse, Monday will bring a summer full moon to the night sky. Traditionally, some Native American fishing tribes were aware that sturgeon — a large fish that inhabited the Great Lakes as well as Lake Champlain — were most readily caught around the time of the August full moon, hence it became known as the Full Sturgeon Moon. A few tribes knew it as the Full Red Moon because, as the moon rises, it appears reddish through any sultry haze. It was also called the Green Corn Moon or the Grain Moon.

…and I was thinking it would be a great day to make pinnacle declarations of appreciation. In August we are at our ripest. We need to reap that which we have sown—very full Moon anyway, one of two, in August, the second will be a near total lunar eclipse, in two weeks.

We did our moon ceremony and I am really ready to reap, let me tell you. This year I want to put $200K toward a house. I’m definitely doing it. If we can come up with $100K, including the $20K I’m saving us on rent. Then I can come up with another $20K; that’s 120K which would be 20% of a 600K house but forty percent of a $300K; and I would plan to pay it off in two years. Writing books and running the jewelry business.

Anyway, it’s a good time to take a step back and to make a change. This whole year ahead will be doing just that. I must cultivate patience, especially with myself. I need to slow down before I’m stopped….anyway, I imagine all elements of life coming together rather seamlessly. Right now I need to make a timeline for the rest of the year. I need to purchase QLab, which is a good expense. I need to make a Sparkler and Sponsor list. I need to send a Save the Date. So August is about festival, learning QLab, finishing the eBooks, chosing new songs, etc. September is about BOTAB and magazine writing and choosing songs. October and/or November are for Europe. We need to buy our tickets.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*

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Leo 14°

So it turns out Nat’s a Leo. Well that might suggest the showmanship first and the bit of trickery and the need for the spotlight; we’ll have to wait on the misogyny. I’m kidding the Leos. You treat your womenfolk with utmost kindness. And, as we said, it was mostly ego and confidence running this show. All the five? segments were figure-out-able. But, as I said the largely older and wanting to be amazed audience swallowed it hook, line and sinker. But it was really fun and wholesome and Americana. The Leo Man chapter of Sextrology is called the Natural. Nat Leo, Nat Geo, Nat Lawson.

As far removed as one is here in Islesboro, ME, I have to say I feel completely confronted with my self in the best of ways. I think the remoteness is not a detriment, in any shape or form; in fact it just might be the ticket for moving forward. I really must this year write a letter last week December early January to tell people that, moving forward, we need to work six months in advance, now, getting commitments from would-be supporters. This way, if I don’t manage to raise the requisite moneys I will send back what I do raise. Or better yet, I will do the simplest imagineable festival in Provincetown; all on the strictest budget.

Oy, I think I just bummed myself out. The point I’m making is that, in Maine, one needs a coastal view. Maine makes a lot of sense, if you have a coastal view. If you don’t have a coastal view Maine doesn’t make a whole lot of sense excepting the fact that it is artisinal and you get get farm to table everything including pajamas.

Today nothing happened. We could have been anywhere. It was banal. There is a banality inherent in much of this experience. I am not one to talk as I am not the active sort I would have liked to have been. I didn’t come from an outdoorsy family who did things. I think the most beautiful combination about American life is having a lot of money and being really healthy. I still aspire to both. I would be a liar if I said otherwise. I still feel it possible on some level to find that perfect balance of elan, of equipoise.

I love the beaches in Wellfleet and I will be sad to leave them. I said that about leaving Provincetown for Wellfleet but it’s funny how you don’t look back. Somehow, soon enough, what you’ve done newly becomes better than what you did before. There are elements of life that are not entropic. Especially when you’re predisposed to detachment as a human trait. Sometimes detachment stems from a childhood environment of unreliability. When you can’t invest in much of you’re experience you learn to find happiness without certainty. Funny how that works. I have friends who come from very solid, stable backgrounds, both emotionally and financially, and I find they have been iller equipped to handle, yes, monumental and sometimes devestating things like the death of a parent with a sort of shock and awe at the mortality of those from whom they descend. Well guess what…

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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Leo 13°

Lunch today was left over grilled chicken cut into cubelettes. Seriously, you’re not going to believe this. I no sooner finished typing that first sentence before I heard this sudden disturbing buzzing coming at my head; I didn’t know what it was because it was too loud for any one insect I know, or like a tiny drone, had I made that connection at the time. But no, it was a hummingbird. Usually shy, elusive this one was full on. I had heard the intense buzzying behind my head and quickly turned to find her stationery in the air, her invisible wings a sound. In the immediacy, I yelled quite loudly oh my god, which should have frightened her away, but it didn’t. She kept buzzing at me. Then I started cooing you’re so cute, you’re so cute, and she bolted away. Imagine being a hummingbird.

Anyway, we go to the Took store called Island Market. And we needed to buy some dinner food and figure that all out because we are seeing a Mentalist tonight at the Community Center. Yes, there was a dog show this morning and tonight it’s the Mentalist. The girls thought flatbread pizza would be perfect and they saw that the Tooks had one style of that pizza and I should get that plus arugula and some other things. I drove and waved and entered and found that it was pulled pork and pineapple pizza. Yeah, no. So I bought beer and left and told them we needed a new plan. Let’s have a picnic. They have a certain baguette, get it. Also some paté (if I wanted it which I do) and so forth. They didn’t have baguette but I don’t care. I will eat the paté tonight after the mentalist. So I’ll leave this unpublished until tonight when I can relate our evening…

…okay, last night was a trip. We got to the community having talked through the possibilities of how the room would be set up to a nearly eight-year-old asking us questions we can’t answer about a place we’d never seen. I finally told her that the room will have all white chairs that will be very comfortable. We arrive and Stella’s like white chairs and I’m like see. There’s a fishbowl set up into which we must drop little papers filled out in the center with a “something” like a favorite pet or what not, fold it, and then put your name on the top. The front person was a sort of nervous-happy local who was in ultimate earnest, and then this executive style woman, beautiful in her sixties, maybe, comes walking towards us, and I know that face. I look at Stella who just gives me a quick and intense: you’re on to something. And so I said to her are you Lois? And she said yes. So it was Lois Childs and I said my wife Lynne worked with Sylvia Heisel (they did in fact partner on an item-driven collection which I named called Region) back in the day—Lois actually modelled in one of they’re shows—and then Stella took over and reminisced about visiting Lois’ house in Santa Monica with Sylvia and all going out from there for dinner where Lois ran into Lindsay Buckingham. This made Lynne happy.

So get this, she wasn’t just a guest here. She was running this whole mentalist show. She asked how we came to be here and we said we were visiting at a friend’s of Nancy’s which is true, leaving the rest of it out, because you never know. And then we sat second row to watch this manchild come out on stage. I pegged him as a Pisces right away. A more comely Bieber with coiffed no-color hair and a knit grey blazer that draped and brown shows with red laces, palest skin with pink flushed cheeks. His name is Nat Lawson. And he mightily suggested that he will be a great one day. His confidence was astounding. He is ready to assume any 7:30 PM network game show, now, at the age of eighteen. Without an intermission, which he brazenly told us his shows typically include, we were there a fat hour. He threw a stuffed rabbit into the audience as a means of picking his first participant who then threw the bunny to pick the second, third, fourth and then Stella-Lynne caught the bunny and was tasked with holding the bunny during the first act before being instructed to kick off the second one. The answer to the first trick was that there were exactly four cards and then the cards would repeat in the deck; the deck was from a children’s game with which our host promptly distracted us, relating stories about his fourteen-year-old brother, the photographer in the audience, was way better at predicting math tallies than he, in effect, planting seeds regarding his supposed personality, subliminally impressing upon what was a highly suggestive audience, inserting certain suppositions about him that would sort of bore and dazzle the audience at the same time, bringing down their defenses to a point where they are ready to believe what’s being shown them. They want to believe. Pisces motto is I believe.

But I knew this guy had to be a Pisces—I actually don’t as I’m writing this know what sign he is—when he went into some story cul-de-sac, lullybying the audience into belief, wherein he said he loved strangers. If anybody knows anything about Starsky+Cox’s take on the Pisces persona, one would know we heavily explore to the brink of exploitation the whole “I’ve always depended on the kindess of strangers” notion.

Anyway, let me see if I can find out somehow if this kid is a Pisces—maybe he’s on Facebook—will let you know what I come up with.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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Leo 12°

Right so directly to our left was Chris’s wife and their kids, one of which, a boy engaged this older woman about her dog. Is that an English spaniel, he asked. Yes it is came the reply; and before he could quickly interject, because he was determined to do it, the lady said: but it is from England where they don’t bob [cut] the tail, which completely took the wind out of the wee O’Donnel’s sails. He was good but funny looking, while mostly the children looked beautiful in that bred way, not unlike the dogs. There was the twelve-year-old girl who is already six feet tall with model looks; and her brother about whom one could say the same—they may’ve been twins. There were likewise two Turlingtonian young girls, their hair in matching, difficult french braids. We didn’t hear anyone shout out Tookie (which inspired our calling this whole tribe the Tooks); but the children had names like Ware, for a boy. One of Apple’s son’s funniest bits was trying to prounounce some name which might have been spelled Geffwyn since that’s how he prounounced it before saying, I dunno, it’s Welsh.

Stella asked me if I thought they voted for Trump, I said no. It might’ve been because, or in spite of the fact, that we just passed the most beautiful Roman Catholic church which, at 10 AM was packed, on a Saturday. I don’t know if I’m connecting these two thoughts, effectively. But one gets the sense, on Islesboro, no matter how extraordinary the wealth here, that the people would see our present ruler as one step too far. There is a conscientiousness amongst the people. Maybe it’s an island thing. One probably feels it in Mustique and many places where you always wave at your steering wheel. But mostly I think it’s an Apple thing. She seems to set the tone; and if she doesn’t she should. I’ve only been here twice but I suppose I must imagine Apple as the unspoken Queen of Islesboro, ruling by kindness and right living, or so it seems. I have only ever met her briefly, but meetings with enlightened beings tend to be brief from my experience.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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Leo 11°

So this morning we went to the dog show at Apple Bartlett’s house on Islesboro, Maine. It was the seventy-third such show and Apple started it when she was ten. All goes to charity of course, and it happens on her lawn which rolls down gently to the sea in great enough expanse that it comfortably held about one hundred people, a “ring” for showing the dogs, about a 100 foot square area where she or her son(s) have sprinkled love-seat and individual sized plastic cushion on said lawn just down away from the house. The lawn then rolled left down a path to the water; center was a circular garden some 200 feet away with still more lawn beyond it; then the whole right of the lawn is initially taken over by a lean, flanking stable of vegetable garden, before rolling away into forest and more sea. One of the most beautiful spots I’ve ever witnesses. For the visuals, yes, but also for Apple’s classy mellow vibe. Her son called the show and he was funny like a more non-chalant Dave Letterman whose mean side had been all but yacht-rocked away. And the people…

Everyone, of course, has a dog, and though I didn’t think about it at the time I might at some point consider if there was any connection between the human characters and their canines. But I was just trying to survive without being too seen. We sat on a blanket we brought—more of a rug, really. My sister-in-law has been here before and she’s determined that bringing ones own form of Macintosh squares is the cooler thing to do. I suppose most people did throw down some kind of pliable surface. And how to explain: What first struck me, on arrival, was that ninety percent of the people were blond. And one always expects women to be dressed, while here the men were too. There were no jeans, rally. Young boys were in muted solid pastel shorts in an array of careful colors. Most had the same style and/or brand of shirt, most markedly, a horizontal micro-stripe pointy polo job with seemingly very fine fabric, as it drapes. We scanned for a few logos and will look them up later. The men wore hats, sometimes jaunty; some were in yacht-drag. The dog and the sea and the time and the means.

The women were beautiful and/or weathered and saintly matriarchical depending on their age or inclination. It was made clear many were cousins as well as friends. They all belong to the same country club where the kids sail and such all day and adults dine and dip in and out. Chris O’Donnel grew up summers here and a few guys and families who accompanied his own wife and kids (he was here last, not this, year) surely look like him.

Apple’s son soldiered through the pure-breed categories—large sporting dog, small sporting dog, non-sporting small and non-sporting large, however these last two categories had a total of one dog between them to show so s/he won first prize. Then there were the miscellaneous dogs. My wife’s niece showed her dog Lulu, here, last year in this category (but Lulu’s in New York right now alone with a dogsitter); so on arrival this morning Apple asked Genevieve if she would like to show her dog, Billy, which she did and it was very sweet. I’m guessing Billy is a Labradoodle. He had the mind, the whole time, that this was his event, and he spent most of the time policing the other dogs. He seemed distracted when Genevieve showed him, as if someone were taking him away from his duty elsewhere. But he relented and trotting in the most pleasing style. They received fifth place, a category, one imagines, invented solely for Billy. He won first price in this category last year against Lulu. But this year Harry won and we knew Harry from earlier…

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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Leo 10°

So I had this dream last night, or rather this morning, which was probably the most vivid and magical and surely significant dream I think I’ve ever had. The dreamscape was already fertile and undulating and alive. There were elements of it that were familiar and new bits too; for the most part the default landscape of reveries is some kind of Provincetown through the looking glass. I seem to “live” there in my dreams in a dimension that has more similarities to, say, Provincetown in the nineteen-forties than the Provincetown of now. Everyone has there own house, there are fewer people, nobody is a tourist. The cast of characters stand out. In the Provincetown of my dreams everything is seen for what it is. There, Billy Hough breaks bottles and stabs and kills my friends. It’s a metaphor, but it’s real.

Okay but this dream so we had sort of moved away from the town landscape into more pastoral a setting. And suddenly, in a clearing I saw two large blue birds. Now when i say blue I mean like the perfect pale-medium blue. They were large (as magical birds are) and rather shiny. They looked only slightly dissimilar. I would say that in shape they were most like giant seagulls but they didn’t have giant beaks but more demure bills, at least the calm beautiful one did. The other blue bird had more markings on his head and he was pecking at the head of the other beautiful bird and I thought this was a violence at first and I was going to shoo the aggressive bird away. But then I realized it was a courtship ritual and they were just about to mate which they did although I really didn’t see them do it but you know how fast, and quick, birds are.

Then the birds and the dream began to morph. They and the world began to spin and suddenly out of the head of what I now realized was the female emerged a rainbow colored lotus. Yes you heard that right: a rainbow colored lotus. So at first I thought I was witnessing some kind of unicorn emerging. The beings themselves, you see, were growing such that they were no longer birds, as they spun around or the world did: They were now more like dolphins or large sleek dogs or miniature horses as the female’s rainbow lotus protrusion from her crown chakra continued on in it’s RoyGBiv JackInThePulpit sort of way. And then suddenly the were in human form.

The female, now obviously a queen, was the most beautiful woman, blond, hair parted in the middle and still sprouting that rainbow lotus, dressed in copious satin like a renaissance noble, all folds and facets. Around her neck, where one might imagine one of those elaborate tudor colors with its origami folds, instead was a swarling net of gold filament dotted with red jewels or fruits or some combination of the two; and the king, let’s call him, was equally though less captivatingly turned out, dark hair, mustache and pointy beard, swathed in the same style fashion, only sligtly less copious than his counterpart’s.

They were now in a clearing on the other side of some trees and in between me and them Stella was there; and as if trying to quickly tell her that there was a hummingbird right behind her so look quickly, she said “I need my glasses” which were off to the side and she grabbed them and put them on and the figures were still there and she could see them. Only t they had morphed even more and in a darker direction. They were not headressed in black and I thought in the dream that, now, these chief god/esses were showing us their Chtonian aspect. Stella had missed their more rainbow technicolor incarnation but she was their for their even more intense and powerful (and dare I say right for a Capricorn) incarnation.

Suddenly there was a third person to my right, a young, handsome presumably gay character reminisicent of the gay best friends we’ve had in our lives. And he asked the magical couple: “Are you European” to which the upper-case Lady responded: “Not quite.” I knew would this meant. I took it to mean that they were Merivingian. That is what they wanted me to know.

I woke up and told Stella my dream immediately. She asked if I started Swann’s Way, the Proust book that was sitting on my bedside. I said no, not yet, but I plan on reading this book that I have planned on reading all my life, this day, now, here on holiday on Islesboro in Maine. “Because you know,” she said, “in the very first chapter, which is really trippy and in which scenes morph one in to the other, the narrator speaks of the Merivingians.”

No shit.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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Leo 9°

So we got to Islesboro in the afternoon, brought in our bags, then went food shopping. We were eight people total and dinner that evening was going to be easy, pasta with meatballs and sausage in red sauce my inlaws brought and we made an arugala salad with tomato and some cheese that was in the fridge about which others were skeptical. I thought it looked fine, perhaps a little wet, but i shaved off outer bits and below that tasted fantastic. We had beer and wine for those who like that sort of thing and it was fun, for sure.

We had seen signs coming in from the ferry—anywhere driving on Islesboro you have to wave at the person driving in the opposite direction along any given road. Typically a little upward unfolding of a few fingers from your hand resting on the steering wheel is enough to register with the other driver.

We sort of created our own polarized expressions for when we’re here. And, for realz, its quite a polarized place, the north part of the island being largely inhabited by locals and then John Travolta’s estate, and on the southside is where you find more blueblood types. There are two food shops, the fancier one of which likely be the least fancy in your town; the other one looks like a museum of dead canned foods. The fancy people we all the Tooks because, at certain events, more than one person would be called Tookie. So it stuck. The other side of the island (read:tracks) folks we can Durks, names for their downscale food market Durkees.

The Fancy gathering we spoke of where the Tookies lie? It is the annual dog show, held on the same day as the Durks favorite annual do—the seafood festival and go-cart race. I wanted to like the later last year when I opted for it over the dog show, to which all the rest of the family went; but on some level I felt the whole time I was taking my life in my hands. First of all the food, or what was left of it, was not something I was going to eat. And then the races are held in the street which, given the location, is already narrow and two passing cars would have to dip to get by each other.

And you have to park your own car first along that road and then walk up to all these doings. But then you realize you’re also on the go-cart race track and about to get mown down by the competitors.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*

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Leo 8°

There is something about driving North. You’ve heard our Graham Nash story which we just told to Justin Vivian Bond the day after their show at the new Glow Festival. Viv had never heard it and it was timely since their show was all about slut-shaming the women of Laurel Canyon. It’s a week since the show and I’m still singing John Phillips, Young Girls are Coming to the Canyon in my head.

Leaving Portland, we put a pin in it, not sure whether its exactly right, but surely understanding what is exactly right about it. It’s only about two and half hours from Portland to Lincolnville where you get the ferry for Islesboro. We didn’t reserve the ferry because it’s overly cautious and too expensive to do so but just showed up. We had no traffic except for the last half hour where we were stuck behind a white car from FL going thirty five miles an hour across SR90 then up Route 1, through Camden, on to the ferry. Of course the pulled into the drive to take the ferry right in front of us and just stopped; the man behind the wheel was too old to be allowed to drive from FL. Stella jumped out to get ferry tickets and she had no sooner left the car before a woman in an orange and yellow reflector vest starting calling us on. I had to ticket, so I said I’m waiting for my wife to get tickets, only to learn I’m in the reservations only line and there is a hold behind me of many cars that also just showed up, we had jumped the line. I’m getting chewed out by orange and yellow; and Stella, I soon learn, is getting even more chewed out by another lady inside being more than just a little local-eccentric. And anyway, the consequence for being shady with Stella is far more severe than it is for those being shady with me because I’m used to it.

Well the first people to pull behind me/us, the first car I’ve in effect cut in front of, was my sister- and mother-in-law and Stella’s niece—Stella’s father and two brothers had already gotten on the ferry in a separate car. So it was touch and go. I had to pull over and let all the cars I cut off go before us. But there was room for us after all, so all three carloads of our party heading to the home that was given us for a couple weeks by its owner, a popular TV actress from the ninetiees, headed there.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*

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Leo 7°

I think the Glow Festival in Cambridge was a success. I know it wasn’t in any way lucrative—that neither we nor ART broke even. But it was a vibrational success. Though I haven’t had a word from ART so I can’t say they feel the same. I have asked for final numbers twice now but haven’t received them—to be honest they’re probably trying to figure out how to mitigate my loss over there’s. We shall see. Despite what I said the other day—I’m fickle—I really enjoy working and creating in Cambridge—I know we can cultivate audiences. It just takes some creative work and engaging those who were truly over the moon about it all. We have a great friend in Boston in Brian King and the people who surround him are super nice and warm and lovely. I am looking so forward to talking to Brian about the next iteration of his show. Meanwhile I have a ton of ferry rides to offer Boston people to come to Afterglow next month.

Was so funny cuz the day we left Cambridge for Portland we were feeling kind of strung out and we stopped to get some gas and I replaced the nozzle and got a receipt and Stella was like how about we reset and start again, from this moment on we’re going to be unhurried and detracté, one two three, and then a man in a diabetes mini bike zzzzzzzz’d in front of a car. We had to wait at least five minutes to start driving it was too funny and the timing too good. We have these friends called the Newlands who, wherever they go, bad weather, literally dark clouds follow. We’re not them. Our vibe isn’t so much gloomy as absurd or just plain ridiculous.

So we headed to Portland and my nerves were really working up. Along with psychic ability I inherited from my Pisces mother a fear of bridges. Not an irrational fear in my estimation, but a very real one as, if my neuroligcal state is not in a state of relax, going over bridges morphs from barely tolerable to almost impossible. Jon Krackhauer the neurologist whom we know from Provincetown as he is a friend of John Dowd’s once said, when I said I used to have migraines as a kid—bad pain and “auras”—but that at some point it switched and I had no more pain in my migraine episodes, but I still got the aura, and he asked: Do you have a fear of driving over bridges? I was dumbstruck. Apparently certain migraine sufferers (my mother, me) have this affliction. And let me tell you it is no fun. More on that sometime.

So we got to Portland which we are sort of exploring as an option for an entrepreneurial nexus. We have always loved it. If we were said to have a honeymoon it would have had been there. Or some sentence like that. I love it in the fall and spring. Winter is impossible and summer sees the city suffer from boaty people who hang near the wharf, listen to live yacht-rock, and get drunk; while the city center is filled with drastic hippie homeless creatures, all tattos and piercings and cut off flannel and dogs and beards and weed and beer and oy yoy yoy yoy yoy. It was hot, it’s August. And the city just bummed me out more than ever. There was a ton of construction all of it ugly and one suspects is being built by the four loud, bragging assholes eating lunch next to us, talking about their projects and tenants, while we are trying to eat our delicious Thai Food.

The first day of arrival we did the on the nose thing and had lunch at Eventide. We had a reservation at Fore Street, one of our favorite restuarants on the planet, for nine pm; but by the time seventy thirty rolled around we were sipping beer and wine at Union and decided to just stay and eat. We stayed a a new place for us, the Harbor Hotel. The room was actually great but everything else about the place seemed off. The second day we had that Thai lunch and tooled around the Eastern Promenande before high-tailing it to Islesboro, more rested and less nervy than the day before with the bridge over Portsmouth New Hampshire.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*

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