Yesterday:

Tom drove two fifteen-year-olds to Portland to see their first rock show. I stayed home with a fifth- and sixth-grader who ate pizza and chortled over a Jack Black movie. To avoid that, I went upstairs and watched Flying Down to Rio on my computer, which is Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers's first movie together. They're not even the stars but merely peppy sidekicks. The movie was made before the Hollywood prude laws were enacted, so the outfits are see-through and the banter is risque. The star is Dolores del Rio, who is supposed to be irresistible but resembles a frozen-dessert treat in a diaphanous blouse. The best part of the movie involves strapping about fifty showgirls to the wings of several small planes. As the "sky" tilts back and forth precipitously and the wind machine blows up their skirts, they wave their legs and arms around, and meanwhile Fred sings a song. For some reason they didn't strap him to a plane, although they did strap on Ginger, who sits astride it like Dr. Strangelove on the Bomb. As I hope I've made clear, this was a very odd movie.

Today:

After getting home at 2 a.m., Tom, poor man, has stumbled out of bed and gone to work. Now the house is filled with comatose boys. Who knows what time I will see them again? But I'm told that the concert-going boys got patted down by security guards and asked if they were carrying any knives. What a thrill.

So I'm off to do animal chores, and print out some edited manuscript so I can send it to the authors, and maybe read some Dickens. I can tell you right now that Paul and I will not be getting to A Winter's Tale until much later in the day. Look for a prompt post this evening or tomorrow. It's school vacation week, which means that everything will be running off schedule here. Boys rule the roost . . . even more than usual.