Hard Place, Rock On...

Johnny's pot of gold is infested with surly elves:

The wife is not satisfied with our life either. The thirteen hour days, the constant atmosphere of chaos and panic, the institutionalized workaholism, they add up to no kind of work/life balance. They're bleeding us, working us like coolies. The breaking point was Friday night when she was supposed to get out at six but instead got out at nine and we missed opening night at the Opera. Sometimes you just have to say fuck it, and we say fuck it. We want our life back. Unfortunately she signed a contract, but, uh, fuck it.

The rest of the weekend, I have to say, has been great. The Wine Fest was fun, although judging by what we tasted, New Mexico's wine industry is decidedly in its youth. We danced to some vaguely salsa music. I didn't even know I could salsa. It was hot. Later we went to Cafe Paris and ate elegant food on the sidewalk, though not actually, you know, on the sidewalk, and were serenaded by an accordionist/singer and violinist playing Edith Piaf songs. It was hot. Today we went to the annual pancake breakfast on the Plaza in Santa Fe, and danced to vaguely tango music. I didn't even know I could tango. It was hot. After two days I have a whole-summer-in-Massachusetts tan. Hot.

The sale of the house in New Hampshire house supposedly happens the twenty-ninth of this month. God, please let this happen. I'll take back what I said about your son being a long-haired dress-wearing faggot.
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I don't have a son, so Johnny's referring to that Jesus fellow we hear so much about. Isn't that precious? Like Pearl S. Buck, I've always thought land was the only thing worth having.