Atherton, take me away...

Last night: a visit post music-prison to the amnemonic chiropractor so that he might coax a prodigal rib to reconspire with its long-suffering colleagues. Success was moderate.

His bizarre memory was in top form: he greeted me by name. A first! And later when I told him I was traveling soon he responded "Oh, France?" which surprised me, b'c we've only spoken about France once, last summer.

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El secreto de sus ojos, ftw! L and I saw it at the Tara. Four thumbs held high. It is a story well told.

The audience was terrible. Bustle-y and food-obsessed. Who are these people?

The man across the aisle ate for an hour and a half, I'm not exaggerating, stopping only occasionally to wheeze and cough on the backs of the necks of the people in front of him. And me. Do they ever feed him outside of theaters?

I don't know how popcorn and plastic-wrapped candies became gastronomical de rigueur for quiet (?) cultural gathering spaces.

Q: Why are some people so cluelessly incareful while others are doomed to believe that everything they do, whether intentional or not, affects sensitive things in their environment?
A: Unknown

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Packing begins tonight for the northward trek. The team is ready, the plan loose-fitting.

There's music, old friends, family, and the ocean all to see. We may visit the Vineyard. We will congregate on the Fenway and incite the Red Sox to athletic transcendency. Or at least to victory. Hooray! And there are at least two formal social gatherings on the docket.

Enough for good times and to spare.