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your father's moustache

the journal of Michael Werneburg

twenty-seven years and one million words

I got my monitor back! For $100, as promised, it's been restored to its original condition by the fellows at Apro.

Going back over to Scarberia—whups, that is, Dartmouth—and then returning with the thing and then taking the car back took all morning.

So my girlfriend and I made for "Your Father's Moustache" and soaked up quite a bit of sunshine. And vodka-and-soda. Yes, it was a fine afternoon and evening. We both got toasted, and started taunting our friends who had to work that day, by sending them messages saying, "It's beautiful out, why don't you come?"

Eventually, Charlie did turn up and the three of us went to a steakhouse and had FANTASTIC steaks. The place let you select your cut's thickness from the big slab of muscle, right at your table. They also allow you to chose how much fat you want left on it. With the generous helpings of fat, mine came to 15 oz. And it was spectacular.

Sadly, we ended the day watching the last episode of Friends, which I have always loathed. Even more than Seinfeld, I mean. God what a pointless boring show.