At the end of a longassed day of working matters found myself with a decent glass of a faux-oaked chardonnay on the beach and realized the last time a beachy coast saw me was in November for Jordan's Bat Mitzvah when TMO got me that swingin' ocean-viewed room in Myrtle Beach and the morn aft I took, after some excellent digivd shooting for art's sake, the nap to end all naps as the cops (there for a convention of questionable purpose) stormed the hotel after Yours Truly checked out. Last night it was a Canadian beach, a thinning and limited public access beach on the lake rimmed with bays of various names - and landed Americans.
It was the 50th b-day party of Mark Griffis. The night before Hunter S. Thompson's ashes and boney remains are to be shot into the sky via a giant red-fisted cannon and with pyros and beloveds.
Upon seeing Mark I gave him fifty hard whacks with my hand and a hard pinch afterwards, a tradition, a bruising and let's-face-facts tradition.
In post-school flux figuring and making calculations as to the next phase and step and plan.
Time to rush about and then shoot what Kimmie last night dubbed a day of someone's new beginnings - a wedding.

Love of new beginnings.