First and foremost, I welcome myself back to this post which I have so treacherously abandoned. Were I a boatswain in his majesty's navy circa, well any time, I more than certainly would have been court-martialed for falling asleep at the stern, as it were.
And for you that can't deal with the allusion to all things nautical, what can I do but paraphrase one Vince Vaughn: "Sailing is like sex" to my people.
And so it is on that note that I turn to the mental narrative occupying my unconciousness last night, featuring one Mr. Luke Wilson, your future boyfriend and mine. Basically, we didn't do much, just held hands and went on a tour of his parents townhouse, which oddly enough was not in Dallas, but some nebulous non-descript metropolis. It was decorated with art deco building blocks. You know those futuristic tiles from the late 30s, early 40s?
I knew it was too good to be true when I saw that from his mom's room you could walk straight into Saks Fifth Avenue.
Ben McGrath and Luke Wilson Sing "We Are Family"-Gawker
And may I be the first to introduce you to the Luke Wilson Dance Party.
1 comment:
now that's a happy dream.
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