Digital. My photo life is now officially digital. Dig that.
Yesterday's stranger moment happened as I was breaking down a gig at the famed Roycroft Inn and one of the CEO's in attendance asked me to help him trim a gag brunette wig to 'look like a regular guy haircut.' I said Well, let's do this out on the veranda. He asked why. I said Because that's traditionally where one gives haircuts in the warmer weather - on the veranda. So I trimmed this cheapo wig to resemble a man's haircut, sort of. I asked why we were doing this.
He was going to put it on in about half an hour for a super visual joke about a famed, not toupee, wearer, but a wearer of a bad dye job.
Hardy-freakin-Har.
As I was cutting Mr. CEO's hair two other CEO's walked onto the porch/veranda and, as I looked up at them, scissors wavering over the millionaire's head, one of them said
I don't even want to know.
The haircut CEO turned around and the other guy said Oh... Paul, it's you. Wow, I still really don't wanna know.
The end.
Moral: even CEO's can be wacky. Put that in your funny little pipe and smoke the shit out of it.

Conversation I overheard on June 15th still absolutely, completely haunting me:

Note: We are standing in a chain pharmacy/dodad store, they are lo-budg-appearing people talking near the checkout center where I am idly fondling tabloids.

Woman #1: Yeah, I was gonna go visit you but I missed my plane.

Woman #2: Oh, I was gonna visit YOU but I missed MY plane.

Secret #1:
Saturday, whilst minding my own business, I drank a bucketful of tequila. Well, I had help with a few select others. This was at Doug/Steve/Josh's joint and a party was in full effect. I drank Guinness interspersed with tequila.
I learnt that this makes a beverage we'll call Milkshake from #9 Ring of Hell.
There was mad dancing. There was touchy-feely dancing. There was by the fire talking out in the yard.
The next morn, en route to brunch with the usuals (those of Janet Reno Fan Club) I had to pull over on Elm Street for a little barfulation. At the restaurant (they ordered for me because my restaurant orders are as predictable as... Old Faithful... Bush the Younger's language flubs) I had to immediately request a doggie bag. Then chatted.
No food for your dear sweet, tequila-loving, Perfect Nancy.

Secret #2:
Shot a supersonic watery, pre-mentioned news story with Lead Boy Colleague last week. Afterwards, as we passed a centre of golfing activity, we stopped to whack the shit out of a bucket of balls. We are both lefty golfers and can share a club.
Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack. ka-fling. Whack. Whack.
The ka-fling is when LBC hit the side guard scaring the living be-Jesus out of the guy next door who I (incrediby to me now) asked if he ingested steroids as he hit balls so effortlessly. I then asked him for a golf tip to force him to like me after the chem accusation. Well that glorious meta-sporting moment, I believe, may have undone two or so months of physical therapy for the post-accident shoulder. If you read this please don't tell P/T Mike at University Orthopoedics & Sports Medicine. Thanks bushels. Thanks buckets of tequila!

My LOVE.