I’ve been trying to get M’ris to add an RSS feed to her journal. Considering that M’ris hand-codes every one of her entries, this is a dubious proposition at best. Nevertheless, I soldiered on with what I thought was an extraordinarily persuasive argument:

This would make MY life much easier. Oh, I’m sure you’re thinking that this would involve some work for you. But why are you always thinking about yourself? It should be about me, me, meee!

She replied that:

You should never believe that other people aren’t thinking about you, you, yoooooou. If it appears that we aren’t, you should convince yourself that we are preparing an elaborate surprise for you. The longer you have to wait for it, the more elaborate it’s likely to be. Aren’t we nice?

So while I wait for what is bound to be an extraordinary surprise from M’ris & co., here are some items in brief:

• Poker night tonight. I hope to continue my massive winning streak from last time, where I took ’em for twelve dollars. Just eight or nine more nights like that, and I’ll be back in the black.

• Or about thirty-five more nights like that, and I’ll have paid for my recent brake job. When one’s brakes go from making a squeaking noise to making a rattling, grinding noise, it’s behooves one to take care of the problem, damn the cost.

  Not that I’m unhappy about this. On the contrary! It’s like my old Rastafarian roommate Miles used to say, usually while grinning from ear-to-ear, “I love paying bills.” Why do you love paying bills, Miles? “Because I hate having my power and phone shut off.” Truer words were never spoken. I love paying for brake repair. I hate involuntarily sailing through busy intersections.

• With the aid of my newly repaired brakes, I popped down to LA for the weekend. I saw Eric and Susan, Jason and Megan, and Elana and Adiv. Now that was all nice, but the real triumph of the weekend (not to give short shrift to my oldest friends and my sister and brother-in-law) was the successful Quest for Donutman Strawberry Doughnuts.

• For years, I thought I had lost Donutman forever. I couldn’t quite remember how to get there, and to make matters worse I couldn’t quite remember the name of the place: I thought it might be “Donutman”, but I also remember that back in my college days, many of us called it “Foster’s” (which may I say is quite wrong: it’s “Donutman”). My searches on the web pulled up nothing — I found a couple of personal websites raving about the donuts, but none of them provided an address or directions or anything useful. Heartbreaking but true.

  So on Sunday morning Eric, Susan, and I struck out for the Claremont area. Our original plan was to find some poor student playing frisbee, kidnap him or her, and extract the information by all means necessary. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Fortunately it didn’t come to that — the street names started to look familiar to me again, and soon enough we found Donutman. And I had me a strawberry doughnut. Huzzah!

  For future reference, Donutman is located on 915 E. Alosta in Glendora, CA. The nearest major cross street is Elwood. If this information helps just one poor, befuddled alumnus of the Claremont Colleges find their strawberry doughnut, this journal entry — nay, this entire website — will have been worth it.