Saturday morning bits.

I am sitting in my dining room with Louis. I am sitting next to the window, which is being propped open with a green hardbound volume of "Poetry of the Victorian Period". Knew those Victorian poets would come in handy for something.

My fingernails smell. They smell bad, I think. The smell reminds me of a moment when I was bussing a banquet at The Old Spaghetti Factory: as I was walking through the back-zone, I passed a server who smelled potently, and I began trying to place the smell.

Louis is now singing passionately, and badly, along with the music playing from my computer.

I love coffee.

I am now singing passionately, and badly, along with the music playing from my computer.

This coffee isn't really that good.

I am "liking" pictures on facebook. Louis is "organizing feeds".

Here's the conversation we just had:
J: [looking up from his computer] What are you doing right now?
L: [looking up from his computer] Organizing feeds.
[J begins typing with intent.]
[L chuckles uproariously.]

You, reader, might not like the description "chuckles uproariously". Can one chuckle uproariously? It seems like behavior of an uproarious kind requires a certain threshold of volume and/or intensity to be breached; and it seems further that chuckling stays well within the bounds of this threshold. Fine observations. But consider the laughing noise Louis in actuality made. It was not an uproarious laugh, per se, but it was not a mere chuckle. This chuckle had gusto. I want to say that the chuckle had attained maximal chuckle-capacity. Anything more would have transcended chuckle into full-bodied laughter. Hence, an uproarious chuckle. Think: as uproarious as a chuckle could be without sacrificing chuckle-dom.

We are each talking to ourselves simultaneously.
"Engagement announcement on Facebook, eh?"
"Why aren't these pages showing up together?"
"They cannot have been together long"
etc.

Now we're eating triple-decker PBJ's and drinking beer. He has a pyramid hefeweizen; I a Mighty Arrow pale ale. You can tell we are delving into my collection of beers rather than his, because mine don't taste like wood and aren't the texture of sludge.

I just watched this video:


Louis says, "peanut butter sticks to your ribs." and he insists on banging on my walls.