God’s in His heaven, and

God’s in His heaven, and all’s right with the world (except for dogs)

I just got back from a fantastic weekend. I totally blew off Small Arms Firing School and rented a red Ford Taurus instead, went down to Philly, picked up Kate on a moment’s notice, drove to the Poconos, got a fireplace/jacuzzi suite at the “Stoudsmoor Country Inne”, stumbled onto Latin night at a local roadhouse and watched some incredible dancing, drove back to Philly, rode my motorcycle in the sunshine*, saw Spy Kids, drove back this morning, visited the dentist for a cleaning before work and got a clean bill of health, and now am back at my desk to plan a big job that I’m interested in with a budget that’s large enough! The sun is out and everyone’s in a good mood. Even the building engineer’s Escalade (see below) isn’t shouting at the bike messengers as they whiz by.

* Every ride in West Chester is like a trip through the Motorcycle Safety School’s “List of Hazards” in the handbook. This time it was a fluffy white dog who ran out from its yard in a frenzy of shrill exclamations. I had to turn around in the cul-de-sac at the end of the street, giving the dog a rematch. I did what the manual says when dealing with dogs — you slow down and let the dog get almost alongside you — and the dog’s barking reached an orgiastic crescendo. “Bark, bark bark! Oh, my GOD, I’m actually going to CATCH THIS THING! BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK!” Then you twist on the throttle and, with a Japanese roar, dash away the sterling cup of victory. The reason, I’m sure, is to make sure that the dog won’t get in front of you — but it’s a cruel, cruel thing to do.

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