This is America, where wings take dream.

It's been a John Kerry sort of day, which means, in it's antiquated sort-of-way, flip-floppish. As I swam between exuberance and lethargy, I managed to get some things accomplished. However, as much as I wanted to, I never made it outside.

I made the obligatory phone call my father to wish him a happy Day. Ethan made me an awesome Harry Potter themed art project. Father's Day was minimal yet pleasant. Fixed my friend Kenny's mother's computer, an old beast with Windows 98. I pleaded with him to shoot it and be done with it, put it out of it's aging, disabled, terminally-ill misery. Created a curtained partition of the basement, separating the office/art area from the media/video game section. Made twenty-three pieces of French toast.

Tomorrow, the beach. The sun beckons me. My skin, peeling from my last foray into the land of silicone granules, demands a rematch. "Bring it on," says Apollo the Sun God. To which I reply, "Oh, it's already been brought, coated in batter, fried up, and served with a pat of butter and powdered sugar."

Oh wait. That was the French toast.