Johnny called.

Well, no, he didn't. I don't know anybody named Johnny, but Brant Bjork's song "Johnny Called," just like almost everything else the man's done, makes me feel invincible, laid back, and able to cope with everything life throws at me, and wear a smile the whole time.

Dave called, though. Dave called Bill this afternoon and shot the shit for a while, and man, I gotta say, talkin' to Mr. Clifford is always good for the soul. Sixteen motherfuckin' years of knowing the man has never gotten old; if anything, he and I's friendship is like bourbon still in oak casks, aging nicely and getting stronger with every passing year. I wish him and his fiance Angela the best, though I do feel bad that she has to put up with his ass until death do them part. Har!

My folks are all for me taking Chinese classes come the fall. Pops even offered to cover half the cost of tuition, though I reckon that I won't need to take him up on the offer if I plan accordingly. Maybe if he's still insistent on helping finance my exploration of the Middle Kingdom I can talk him into buying me a copy of the Taoist cookbook I found online. Don't matter, though. I'm just happy knowing my folks will be back in the States for good as of this summer, and that, as always, they're 100% supportive of my endeavors.

All right, folks. Time to try and do a little writing before I go make the scene. Y'all take it easy.