mouth punching

This weekend I went to New Haven and, while supine in the dark on a futon, was punched in the teeth by a belligerently drunk hapa woman. Happily, my apparently resilient gums retained their grip on that tooth which my dentist brother Richard identifies as 1.1 (first quadrant, first tooth), so I did not have to sue for battery/infliction of emotional damage brought on by the sudden ugliness of gap-toothedness.

Otherwise life lurches forward. My coldest comfort this week has been the pleasure of applying what I am learning about statutory interpretation in my Administrative and Regulatory State class (in United States v. Marshall) to my current state of disarray; namely, the court's definition of a "mixture." If LSD sprayed onto a piece of blotter paper is considered a mixture, then the twined lives of 2092 8th Avenue was certainly a mixture, too. Through plying the clothes in the closet and the books on the homemade shelves, I have learned that in the course of four years of a life together everything that could be commingled or shared was commingled and shared. Let's have done with the actuarial division of property - I'm doing it all by myself!

In less suicidally depressing news, I found a place out in that real estate fabrication called "East Williamsburg," which if you'll listen carefully, is actually pronounced "Bushwick." There is a dog door and a cement "garden" out back and an albino shepherd named Georgia Brown, so my groom Boo will be well accommodated. Moving begins this Saturday followed by a week of my favorite sport, surfing, to be played out atop the cresting plush waves of my favorite people's hide-a-beds and futons. Then it's off to New Orleans for the 2006 IFOCE gumbo-eating contest. I'm hoping to beat Kobayashi this year.