If your mother only knew

So how about Pakistan, guys? I know this isn't that type of blog, but I'm fascinated by the image of lawyers in cheap suits taking to the streets, one of the only active voices of dissent. I don't see too much of that where I work. Refreshing courage.

In other news, my Japanese teacher told me I speak like a poet. "Why Mitsue, because of the beautiful melodic way I express myself?" Turns out it's because I say things that don't make sense.

The other night I had a drink with Nikki Roxx's prom date! Wisely, he only let me look at the prom picture for a second. Otherwise it would've been under my mattress in a heartbeat. Gross.

My next-door neighbor looks way too much like a lonely Dominican version of my Uncle Oliver. He is always smoking cigarettes on his stoop and gazing longingly into the night, like a wife waiting for her sailor husband to return. It's unsettling.

It was also unsettling when I visited Dominicoliver's house the other day, after he stole my home improvement project off the street. He didn't speak enough English to explain why he wanted my newly painted plywood.

Jo and I plan to drive 7.5 hours to Buffalo in the middle of winter, one of the strangest road trips ever devised. Details to come.

Okay gotta go. I'm off to the dress rehearsal for Radio City Music Hall's 75th anniversary Christmas Spectacular. I heard there will be fireworks. Beth Mullin is concerned for my safety but I assured her they'll have a better mastery of pyrotechnics than a Great White concert.