After some rather mediocre service at Tommy's, Tricia and I drove around for almost half an hour trying to think of what to do. She wanted to play; I wanted to get a drink at Gallileo's. She wanted to follow people; I wanted to walk around Lake Hefner. After I said, "I just hope we don't end up at Barnes and Noble like we usually do," we found ourselves at B & N with a pile of books I wanted to buy and some frappucinos. Bret Easton Ellis is my favorite author of the week. His humorously grim takes on the shallow existence of the inhabitants of Los Angeles makes me want to move to La La land even more. Tricia and I asked each other questions from the "Stupid Questions" book. Some of them were a bit insipid ("Why are people who use correct grammar such dorks?"). Others were insightful ("Which is worse: making love in your parents bedroom or your parents making love in your bedroom?").

Once Tricia started throwing my books off the table for attention, I knew it was time to go home. So here I am. Tomorrow I have to wake up at the butt crack of dawn to take in my Accord for some much-needed repairs (read: getting the speedometer fixed so I can quit playing death's guessing game). I've been promised a brand new Jetta by summer's end if I get my current ride in tip top condition, so you can bet I'm getting my ass in gear. And now it's time to memorize the delicious dishes of the Red Rock Canyon Grill. Southwestern Caesar Chicken and Prosciutto Wraps, anyone?