It's Friday and I'm living in the past. And so are my boys (I promise I don't talk like that normally.)

(This is what I originally posted yesterday before Blogger inexplicably chopped off the ends of sentences and left entire ones out and then wouldn't let me do anything except write text in the title box. Beej had left a comment before I managed to just ax the whole thing, so a strange man in Massachusetts was the only person who got to read about my underwear Friday morning. And don't worry, my laundry is drying on the line as I type this.)

How many pairs of underwear does a normal person own? I swear I did laundry a week ago and yet I'm completely out of fresh drawers. I've resorted to those red silk boxers that were a gift back in high school. That's 12-year-old underpants, people, although they're typically deployed only once or twice a year on desperate occassions such as this, so they look brand new. I don't even like boxers. Silk boxers, by the way, are not so much a functional garment as they are a vague suggestion of one. They kind of do their own thing, like the wandering Touareg tribes of the Sahara, only not as fierce. I think they're in my left sock right now.

Blog post describing my underpants and specifically using the word "underpants"? Check.

Further randomness: A large department store chain that describes itself as "family clothing" has a common fabric color that they call "Peyote." There's also a less common color described as "Vanilla Ice." One is cooler than they realize, the other not as cool as they think. I'll let you decide.

I had a monologue that I worked out in my head yesterday involving a urinal and it's previous user, but since I've already described my underwear to you today, I may save that for another time.

Instead, I'll leave you this week with some photos from our trip to Georgia last weekend that I got around to loading into the the ol' 'puter. As if anyone gives a shit. Whatever, it gives me another chance to express my hatred of flowers. Disclaimer: the first three are from a moving vehicle and were chosen only because they approach level and do not induce vertigo.

The road down to Georgia, but not the same one the Devil took. Or maybe it is.


Tiny theater in a flyspeck east Tennessee town putting on a production of The Diary of Anne Frank = hope for the world.

This jolly fellow saw me taking his picture through the sunroof. We connected. It was a moment.

These dogwood blossoms in my parents' backyard are both rude and offensive. I wish they would die.

I'm glad this bumblebee likes the azaleas because I sure as shit don't.

Dinosaur. Maybe a velociraptor.

Good thing I had a live cow to sate his appetite. My parents' backyard can be a dangerous place.