Watch this. Be warned, I can't stop saying "put a donk on it!" in v poor northern accent...

Just had friends for dinner (just spaghetti - that kind with the onions and bacon - and, somewhat grossly, Toll House cookies, since it was only boys) and now am feeling like a martyr, since I told everyone I didn't want help with cleaning, when obviously I did and do. I am by no means one of these people who finds cleaning of any kind contemplative or therapeutic.

We talked about the new Neil Strauss book; now I have borrowed it. I made them watch the Donk documentary, obviously. My brother was talking in a very nihilistic way about going to L.A. in a Winnebago, which one can only hope will pass. Slim, not helping matters, seemed to think this was a fine plan. He, by the way, is at this vacant lot he likes, where he's been spending a lot of time. Last night he devoted several hours to drawing a hypothetical building that would meet the zoning requirements, having once taken a drafting class in San Francisco.

As they left, I said,

"Charlie, did you see my new doll?!" I indicated the stockingette 60s girl, who's now positiioned just at the top of the stairs.

"Yeah," he said.