MY MIND IS UNUSUALLY SERENE LATELY (hardly cause for complaint, except that I blog best under duress). I’m furnishing that surplus mental real estate with reading: most recently a 1000-page novel about proto-scientists in the age of Enlightenment (oof; thanks, Kev!), a gift subscription to the New York Review of Books (best eva, Marc!), and, just this week, the revelatory rock crit manifesto I might have written if I knew 100x more (thanks for getting the hint, sis!).
It’s not just me. Sarah’s mainlining Self Help and alternative health books as Johanna inches toward that moment where she can pick up and read stuff unaided. Betting we’re obsolete by February.
In other timesucks, I’m compiling an unscheduled mixtape for my club, “FOLK-HOP,” a set of alternating rap and folk tunes that’s sure to displease fans of both. I’m also closing shop next week to chill and ski with the in-laws while jumping on all Happy Hour invitations until January.
How much leisure can one man handle? Here, I’ll show you.
Jo and Sarah churn out ultra-vivid monoprints at the Highpoint Center. Mine suffered from a lack of ink and inspiration.
The great-granddaughter with our beloved Nassif Matriarch, still a formidable bridge player at 89.
Lo, Jo, Louis, and Two Dads In Loungewear.
No idea what inspired this, but I’m adopting it as my 2012 mantra.
With no ice or snow, we’re running all over.
Catching yellow-hued views at dusk from the Guthrie.
For months, Sarah’s been saving “special” bottles for kombucha (a more vile beverage I’ve never encountered), only to have every last one freeze and break. Repulsion averted!
A modest wishlist posted to the front door.
Allison, newly 34 with Beef Bourguignon, at her second birthday celebration of the night. Steady there, sister.
A panda inspects the work of beavers on the East Bank of the Mississippi River.
I sit here so contentedly.