It is now 3 pm Moontime

All right, fools, now that it's finally 3 pm Moontime I'll lay this
update on you. What do I have to say? Nothing really. I'm just trying
to keep this baby cryin.

Actually I will say this: my parents are now millions of centimeters
over the earth heading this way. They will arrive around 9:55 pm. They
will find Orlando muggier than the inside of a hillbilly's toothless
disease-softened mouth. They will also find the apartment smelling of
Mr. Clean mopping solution, as Sarah and I have spent the afternoon
and early evening cleaning, cleaning, and making T-Bets (turkey bacon,
egg and tomato sandwiches).

There are a few difficulties surrounding this parental visit: 1) we
live in a neighborhood sort of loud at night, and the tequila bar is
hosting a Seven Mary Three concert on the street this Wednesday.
Awkwardness is sure to ensue. 2) I have to work a graduation ceremony
tomorrow morning. Graduation from the Horse Academy, which I think is
what I will use to refer to my school from now on. 3) I'm not sure
exactly how to occupy this week (they will be with us until next week
-3 3 pm Moontime. One of my coworkers suggested this restaurant:

http://www.planetdeland.com/sugarmill/sugarpage2.htm

Who knows. Maybe.

4) Tomorrow is my father's birthday. He has brought harmonicas for
Sarah's amusement. He had them in his carry-on and my mother sent me a
message about DSM airport security thinking they were clips for an
automatic weapon.

What would you do with your parents if they came to stay with you for
a week? I'm looking forward to seeing them and am happy to have them
here but I know there will come some awkward what the hell do we do
now moment? And unlike every other such moment in my life, I won't be
able to stuff it into a shot glass of spiced rum.

Well, here are some things I read lately:

THE CRYING OF LOT 49: Thomas Pynchon's comic/fantastic/paranoid novel
of late-60s California and a postal conspiracy. A little too goofy,
but good at times. I give it 7/10 lavalamps. Also he wrote it when he
was a little younger than me, so maybe I'm just jealous.

THE SANDBOX: David Zimmerman (of Iowa State)'s novel of the Iraq war.
A little stale at a few points but engrossing throughout. 8/10
lavalamps.

THE THIRD POLICEMAN: Flann O'Brien's fantastical novel of...I don't
know. I'm like fifty pages in. It started off kicking mules but it's
turning a bit rote-afterlife journey. I maintain optimism, however.
9/10 lavalamps.

Is lava lamp supposed to be two words?