I went to see my dermatologist yesterday evening about something near my right ankle and I left his office with a band-aid on my lower leg, one by my left collarbone, one on the back of my neck, one on my forehead, and one on the top of each ear. Which, if it wasn't a personal record, was close to it.
Despite living in Florida for 33 years, I still don't feel Floridian. But when I see pictures from places I used to call home - recently a photo of row houses in Philadelphia - I feel sadness at the absence of porches.
I experienced some technical problems with my blog, then was off in Key West for a few days, but now I'm back. This is a bit of a test; I'll return to my regular blogging tomorrow. Thanks for checking in.
Saturday afternoon we drove to FAU in Boca to catch a movie at the Living Room Theater. (The excellent Living with the incomparable Bill Nighy.) Before the film, pictures appeared on the screen of foods available for purchase in the cafe. The one showing candy carried the words: "Pick your poison."
In a recent Spectator I read that Meghan, the Duchess of Sussex, invited George and Amal Clooney to her wedding despite the fact that she had never met them.
The King Mango Strut in Coconut Grove on Sunday was not as anarchic as in the past, as a few groups were allowed in this year who marched as themselves. These included the Hare Krishna, the kind of organization the Strut would normally make fun of. They brought a sense of earnestness that was totally out of keeping with the spirit of the event. (They also brought the most elaborate float in a parade known for its DIY concoctions.) A mention of the parade in Monday’s Herald reported that it was more “inclusive” this year, but I found myself longing for the days when inclusiveness meant mocking everything under the sun.