Brent's cousin scheduled her Baltimore wedding for 6:30 p.m. today, the Friday beginning a major holiday weekend. Typically the Friday before a major holiday weekend will find me at work, then home on the back deck mocking people sitting in traffic.

Today we worked half days, then came home and changed clothes before setting out on the highway. The average speed on this highway was about 20 miles an hour, and according to the local all-news radio station it was all volume- no accidents or other activity blocking the road. Hence we were in the car for about an hour without even getting halfway to Baltimore.

I was behind the wheel. Every time traffic stopped, I tried to fix my dress, which had become incredibly uncomfortable in the hour I'd been wearing it. Suddenly I felt a blow to the back of my head. I thought perhaps I'd accidentally stalled the car (I'm one of the remaining dozen Americans with a manual transmission), but then I looked in my rear-view mirror. The car behind us was very, very close, and its driver had turned on the hazard lights. I asked Brent to call the police.

The driver got out and offered to exchange information, but I said I'd called police already. We pulled off the road and onto the median to wait. It was warm and muggy, so I turned the engine back on for the air conditioning. I kept rubbing the spot on the back of my head that hit the head rest. The other driver was taking photographs and saying that there was no damage to my car. On the contrary, the bumper had been scrunched into the trunk. I pointed this out to her, and she said, "there's no way I caused that." I said, "it wasn't like that before." She said, "that wasn't me."

An emergency patrol truck came along, and the guy asked whether we were okay. I said that I was but that I still wanted to wait for police. He blocked traffic so that we could move our vehicles to the right shoulder instead of being in the grassy median. We waited some more. I started to write out my car and license information for the other driver, figuring we could exchange information without waiting for the cop to show up. Because it was the Baltimore-Washington Parkway, we had to wait for the U.S. Park Police.

Just as I finished writing out my info, the cop car arrived. The cop asked again whether we were all right and whether the cars were drivable, then she gave each driver a form to fill out and give to the other driver. I filled out mine and asked Brent to give it to the other driver. Apparently while he was waiting for her to finish, the cop told him that we shouldn't have called the police. We should have just exchanged information and gone on our merry way.

By this point my head still ached, and my neck was stiffening up, and I didn't feel like being lectured for being overly cautious. Sorry, Ms. Cop, for making you do your fucking job. We weren't blocking traffic except for a minute or two, and traffic was already at a crawl, so I don't think our fender bender added much headache to the already hellish commute.

Brent wanted me to go to a hospital for a checkup, just to make sure I was okay. We got there at 4:40; we left (after a CT scan and an all clear) around 8. My neck got incredibly tired of holding up my head; the waiting room chairs are probably deliberately uncomfortable. We didn't have anything to read and we were grossly overdressed compared with everyone else.

Not that anyone on my friends list would be guilty of this, but I just have to say that the idea that people somehow relish going to hospital emergency rooms for "free" health care has to be one of the all-time dumbest straw men. Even if you can't pay your bills, you've paid with time, and most people there were with their children. The non-sick kids went outside once to run around and burn off some energy, but most of the time they were making their parents crazy with their boredom. The only food source is a vending machine; the only diversion is CNN. It's a shitty place to be, and no one goes to an emergency room out of glee.

Also, I love how they all say that they treat patients without regard to ability to pay, yet they get billing information hours before they let a nurse talk to you.

And we missed the wedding, which was at the National Aquarium. Had we gotten there early, we could have wandered the place after hours for free. I had been looking forward to seeing Brent's family and meeting the cousin's new in-laws. Ah well.

Cover art for my novelette "Faster Gun,"  (Working title: "John Henry Holliday is Sick of the These Time-Traveling Assholes") forthcoming on Tor.com this summer.

The artist is Richard Anderson.

What takes the sting out of turning 40? Diamond earrings from your husband. BLING!

I'm working on "The Deeps of the Sky" tonight, and generating a regular festival of Words Word Don't Know:

luminesced, tropopause, sheeny, thicks, unnavigable, dartlike,

Meanwhile, I had a little argument with myself on twitter as to whether I should use some modestly bogus science to create a cool special effect. I went with it. ;-) Now I'm stopping because I have to figure out how the protagonist intervenes to stop the Bad Thing from happening, or how he mops up afterward...

Oh, I might have just done so. Woot!

The other exciting part of Saturday was that the farm's strawberries were at their peak. I only had to search an area of about one square meter to find two, maybe three quarts of berries:


I was happy to find several large strawberries. Usually if a large berry is ripe, it's also half rotten.


Brent has been worried that we won't be able to eat all the ones I picked. I made a strawberry almond tart on Sunday, and I'll probably make a strawberry pie in the next few days. I'm not worried. Plus, the farm's weekly list of available items said that strawberry production is down quite a bit. Strawberry fever never lasts very long.

The farm produces a very small amount of asparagus, but it's usually incredibly good. In past years I have eaten stalks raw on the way home from picking up my share. Last year we didn't get any asparagus (supposedly there is enough for each shareholder to get one bunch, but even in a hippie CSA there are cheaters), and I was beginning to worry that we wouldn't get any this year. There were still bunches when I went on Saturday, so I made a beeline for them. There was a guy blocking my way, and I didn't even look up at him, just tried to maneuver around. Then he said my name in an exasperated tone, and I finally looked at his face. It was my ex-boyfriend David! He apparently joined the farm (dunno whether this is his first year; we split nearly five years ago). I was totally surprised, not least because I remember him telling me that he wished he didn't have to bother with eating- that he could just take a pill and get all the calories and nutrients he needed.

He introduced me to his girlfriend, who was helping him pick up the share, and asked me whether I'd built a back deck yet (*snort* David sometimes crosses paths with Bear because they're in the same line of work, and Bear told me that David had asked about that deck). I didn't have any questions for him the first time around, but I went over to him about five minutes later and asked about his daughter and his mother.

So I guess I'm going to be acquaintances with one of my exes, which I've never really done. The closest would have been wouldprefernot2, but we only saw each other in person a few times after our breakup. Mostly we kept in touch via LJ. Brent asked me whether he was going to have to go to the farm for the rest of the season (which I'm pretty sure he would hate). I don't mind seeing David. Now, if Michael were to join the farm... well, I'd probably just ignore him after yelling at him once. But David isn't a bad guy. I'm glad he has a girlfriend.

For those who haven't seen the news, there will be a Decentralized Dance Party in Pittsburgh tomorrow (Thursday) night from 8 to midnight - essentially a flash mob where you bring or borrow a boombox loaded with batteries, tune into an FM broadcast from the DJ, and wander the streets making people confused and curious. The meetup location will be announced at http://www.facebook.com/events/273496816051952/ sometime tonight, and the hosts were looking for someone who might be able to let them park their RV and crash overnight as of a few hours ago (see the FB page for the post). Maybe it's not your thing, but if it is, all past videos of their cross-country tour look like a lot of fun!

Wow, I turn 40 tomorrow. I'm just a big dumb kid in knee socks and mary janes. How did this happen?!

Does anyone know of where I could hire a bagpiper for a retirement party?
Just for a couple of songs - say like an hour?
For less than $100?

Thanks!

But the opening act, white-man-with-guitar-and-harmonica John Fullbright, does. Why, why, why do supposedly premier venues like the Birchmere continue to pair totally unsuitable opening acts with their headliners?? The booking agent for the Birchmere probably doesn't get paid much (and possibly just calls whoever's been featured on NPR the previous week), and maybe Fullbright's record label provided some sort of payola in exchange for making a geriatric audience sit through pointless wailing, but, honestly, I could book more fitting opening acts. There are half a dozen country bands in the area who would probably perform for free, who actually write and perform songs with melody, and who don't write lyrics like "I've got diamonds in my backyard/They grow just like weeds" (taken from Fullbright's site, those are the opening lines to his first song at the Birchmere).

Dear John: You're opening for Ray fucking Price and you start with a mixed (some would say tortured) metaphor?? You are not doing any favors for Oklahoma's reputation as the home of the not-so-bright (see also people shooting into crowds after a local professional sports team wins a playoff series).

Anyway. We were the youngest people in the audience who weren't accompanying our parents or grandparents. It was really sweet to see elderly couples move closer to their partners as the musicians played songs that might have been from their courtships. A woman at the end of our table appeared to be in her late 60s or early 70s; I think she was crying during "You're the best thing that ever happened to me."

Ray's son Cliff plays guitar and fronts this iteration of the Cherokee Cowboys, warming up the crowd before Ray comes on. After Ray appeared, Cliff mostly stood in the middle of the musicians and looked at the ground. I got the feeling that he was there in case his father collapsed. Besides Cliff, there are two fiddlers, one bass player, one drummer, one pianist (first time I've seen a baby grand on the Birchmere stage), one steel and regular guitarist, and one lead guitar. With Ray appeared two more fiddlers, for four total. I loved having so many fiddles, especially when the band did an instrumental version of "Faded love" as Ray rested.

Ray is 86 years old and had a cold Saturday night. I think quite a few of us in the audience were grateful to see him but also worried that he wouldn't last the night. His voice is not what it was, but it retains its most important characteristic- trembling vulnerability. He never lost a step in timing and rhythm. He sang probably eight songs, five or so the big hits (opening with "Crazy arms" that went directly into "Heartaches by the number) and the rest songs about time and aging. His songs were interspersed with instrumentals, cornball jokes, and stories.

A woman on the other side of the audience shouted a request that I couldn't understand, and a man marched up to the stage to take a photo right in Ray's face between songs (fortunately I think a staff member stopped him before he got a photo), but mostly the crowd was respectful, almost reverent. As it should have been. I teared up a little when Ray talked about wanting to come back for another show.

We didn't stay for autograph signing with the band, opting to escape the Birchmere's hellhole parking lot quickly. Was it Ray Price's best show? Probably not. I still feel lucky to have seen him in person.