. . . and life is like a song

"How," Brandy demanded, her face looking like a memento mori, "is it possible for someone like yourself, who spends hours every day editing Chris's novel, to have as yet nary a teambubu blog post on your resume?" She wrung her hands. She wrung my hands. "How, I say," she continued, arms akimbo, "can I tell our friends that you, who are functionally unemployed, a slothmuch, a mowlittle, a beerskin, a be-cheetoed palmprint on the sleeping face of St. Brewguts, cannot help me even with this blog?"

"How," she asked again, legs akimbo this time but for only a spectacularly painful moment which convinced her to resume her earlier posture, "can you bring yourself to face sweet Melody, who for us didst fashion yon blog? Oh, thou who art for public house sluggards a totem of cheer, to think that they are more industrious at least than thy sulking frame! Oh for breath to utter what is like you!"
And if she did at this point borrow a bit overmuch from Henry IV, still I was moved to correct rather my own errors than hers (for to venture the latter would see me much moved!).

And so I hope you don't mind that I wrote down in words--with a few pictures--how wonderful life is, now we're in Winston Salem. I had intended to show pictures of my bike, or my fun post-helmet hair, or the cool chain wheel grease stains on my calf (which would make a bodacious tattoo!), but I don't have any yet. So, I thought Brandy's shoes needed airing. That is, pictures of her fun new shoes. And half of me at today's 2nd Annual 48-Hour Film Festival in nearby Greensboro, in which dozens of indy film crews compete to film the best ten-minute picture on location in Greensboro, total production time not to exceed 48 hours. Thank you NPR for the tickets I won from you. Not a bad time. The other half of me came too, and together we all had a delicious time.
And finally a picture of Sophie, in case you've forgotten her. We don't have a baby, but we have one cute Beagle, ladies and germs.

Yours First and Last,
Ben