They finally got the sidewalk put back in out front of the Giant Petroleum Conspiracy Outpost where I'm sporting a nametag these days. It needed to be torn out (all of it, natch) because about six square feet of it between the wheelchair ramp and the door had subsided less than 0.5", which rendered it out of spec for Americans with Disabilities Act compliance. I loves me some government. (And by "love", I mean "hope packs of rabid wolverines tear apart".)
Yesterday I went to lunch with longtime e-Friend and everyone's favorite Hessian gunblogger, Thorsten, who's winging (or "rental econoboxing", as it were,) his way through Tennessee on his '07 American Tour. We put the top down on the Zed Three and went to the Chop House via some twisty backroads, where we devoured one-pound slabs of prime rib, which leaves you feeling like you accomplished something when you've finished, and which nearly left me in a food coma for the rest of the evening at work. Hopefully I'll get to see him again before he continues west to Nash Vegas and the tender mercies of Oleg's cameras.