It’s been too long since I’ve written you, but not a day’s length since I’ve thought of you.
I can’t imagine you’d tolerate any place without Wifi, but, just in case reception is spotty, a quick update:
I thought of you this weekend, kickoff of the NFL season. Why did we know so much about every sport, regardless of whether we played it? But you would have loved the U.S. Open. Federer is still great. Serena is still great. As good, dare I say, as when we marveled them on those courts in Westwood. Every time I drive down there, I think of your apartment, and how those neighbors must have considered us pervs, the adult men who gathered every Sunday night to giggle at a cartoon.
Maybe that’s why you were on my mind. Sunday nights in fall were always pretty cool: football and Simpsons. And a Futurama should we need further geeking.
Oh, I began the arduous process of applying to be a Big Brother. I need someone to endure my magic. Why not force a child? Hell, they’re already being fed Halloween costumes and candy in August. Seriously. They don’t celebrate it like D.C. did, though, and no one makes a better member of the Village People.
Man, you’d go ape shit over all the Steve Jobs movies. Seriously, at least five this year. This is mythology in the making. You think history ultimately sees him as visionary or PT Barnum? If you see him, tell him the new iphone sucks.
Well, that’s about it. I miss hell out of you, dude. See ya.