So last night at the fiesta I somehow ended up in a contest with Rob Chin's baba at a dinner which Rob Chin himself was unable to attend. Yes, I had to put away that Tsingtao like it was no one's business and soon I was pinker than even Rob Chin's mother's shirt which was pink. But this was all in good fun, and I should try and climb on the largesse wagon more often. Of course, it is Joephet who has to end up paying for such things, as I rolled around his bed drunkenly, squeezing my non-driver ID card for no good reason, but at least he got some Gaeng Ped Gai out of it all. That and I crawled my way through six volumes of Lone Wolf and Cub, making it three cover-to-cover readings to date, which all makes me want to be doing more kendo, which I would be at right now, except even a 1830 start time sort of precludes my participation and Rob Chin's, and each implies each.

I was recovered enough in time to be disappointed at Paul Hamm's victory over the Koreans in gymnastics. I mean, his body might well be great, but he has a scrunched face and the voice of a munchkin. I am much amused at his ecstatic photos all splayed on the high bar plastered over the newspapers: it looks like he's ready to receive a gentleman caller. (Or: Alric, kirka 2002: "I just don't know what more I can show a girl [in bed]." Me: "What about the Passage to India?")

Today I have not accomplished much beyond spackling the underbelly of the stairs with some Greek approximation of cement, which was fine and fun, but drippy and a mess until I got a hang of it, that and painting the backsteps a dark grey energetically.

I also finally received word today from John Blum. I suppose I should play a game where I have y'all guess where he is on his international journey re: math education. Any guesses?

Northern Botswana.