Congrats to Jenna Bush. I think marriage is how the Bushes stop drinking. Or maybe it’s marriage and Jesus.

In one week, I’ve heard about two heart attacks (one fatal) less than one degree of separation from either M. or me. At the same time, a family member is collecting for a American Heart Association walkathon. Damn, I best not be eating no pork for the rest of the week.

The grocery-store sitting homeless guy gave me the chuckle of the day. (There’s like a total of three or four dudes in the streets of this part of town, and a couple seem to take turns at the store parking lot.) He cracked on M., teasing him that he sees him running around all the time but didn’t seem to be losing weight.

I don’t know what I love more, a street person fucking with M. or that M. is apparently so charismatic and shit that even the homeless dudes recognize him when they see him.

Looks like we found a flat with a spare room in Edinburgh. Between our friends already there and the spare room, neither Dot nor I will be turning tricks or rolling with the Scottish homeless. That’s cool.

On the downstroke, though, one of the emails we were exchanging with Debbie and Christine referenced a birthday this week for one of them. 23 tender years’ young. As M. would say, ripping off Nancy Grace, “Oh Lord.” Me and young womanhood, ahhh, imagine me shaking a cranky, old-lady finger and tsking.