Good evening. I'm back from Jonny's rehearsal dinner, at which I did, as it turns out, give a speech. As speeches go, it wasn't THAT bad, but no one's going to be posting the text of it on the Hinternet for inspiration, either. ("The next Mark Twain!")

I don't have a horror of public speaking, but I'm not exactly skilled at speaking off-the-cuff. And I suddenly, in the middle of it, noticed the bride's grandfather staring at my midriff and got a creeping certain horror that my fly was undone. (It wasn't.) I wanted to say something about what a good friend Jonny is, and how loyal, and how happy I am for him that he's found his lovely bride, so I said that, kind of, and only told one minor lie (claiming that I entered college at age ten) before I started to get self-conscious and ended abruptly to relieved applause. So, it may have been unfocused and impromptu, but at least it was brief and fueled by sincerity rather than wine.

The lack of wine was by default rather than design. I got to cocktail hour late because I was watching the new DVD bootlegs of "The Adventures of Pete and Pete" I just got in the mail, so I had time for only one glass before dinner. And then, since there was no wine at dinner, I didn't have any more. (The case for a flask.) It's probably a good thing that I stuck to one glass, given that the age range of the room was 4 months to about 80. That, mixed with my recent propensity for the word "motherfuckin'" is the recipe for a very ugly cake.

Anyway, I'm back in my room now. My suite. It's a suite. (Suite!) There being no mini bar in this motherfuckin' suite, I immediately called downstairs for a bottle of Cabernet, for the bargain price of $31. Such a rip. Am I going to turn into one of those raspy-voiced, haggard ladies I used to see at social events in Massachusetts, hauling out their own bottle of hooch from a basket handbag to save a buck or two? (Yes. I think we all know I am.)

Anyway (again), because it is Friday night and I'm alone like I've been picked last for kickball, drinking a glass of wine like a closet lush, what better activity could there be, outside of a Star Trek marathon, than checking my e-mail?

In doing so, I learned that Ms. Tahmi is having a way more exciting weekend than I am, with two guys named Victor and naked Scrabble and everything. Also, that someone, possibly two separate people, found my site by typing the following into Google:

i like boobs; and
freakishly large boobs

Huh. The thing is, the motherfuckin' thing, is that this isn't the first time that "freakishly large boobs" has brought me a visitor. Should I incorporate this concept into more entries? Can I see a show of boobs?

I also got a very nice e-mail from Jenni, who I'm positive is the nicest Baptist in the world, responding to my previous entry and reminding me in gentle terms that not all Baptists are crazed religious wingnuts. Which, of course, is true and I know, but occasionally forget. So, Jenni, thanks. And thanks for not writing a crazed rant about what a motherfuckin' bigot I am, or anything. Because I've got that territory covered all on my own.

P.S. I like boobs! I like boobs! I like freakishly large boobs!

Star of the day. . .Chet Baker