Oh, cat, don't fly away again. My head's killing me.

My, what a busy week I've been having.

• Monday night, the semi-staged reading of the Tempest with this humble one as Stephano, with bigjohnsf in attendance;
• Tuesday night, il Trittico, Puccini's nifty Variety Pak of one-act operas at San Francisco Opera, sadly with no date but happily with a gets-Puccini conductor and a great cast, Racette, Podles, and a crowd of sexy, beefy bearded men (who through some odd confluence could all sing good);
• and Wednesday at Pac Bell Park (which I will be DAMNED if I ever call AT&T Park) with former housemat (typo but it stays in) Andrew, watching the home team dawdle lazily for 8 innings, raise the crowd's hopes and desires to a fever, and then dash all those emotions to the ground in one awkward second. Baseball is such a c**k-tease of a game.

So, good times. But you know what I'll remember forever? The one bad thing. I won't remember the wonderful singing, or the congrats I got for my acting, or the sexy ballplayers and crowdmembers, or the garlic fries. I will remember this.

( Cut for the sensitive )

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Apparently some people liked this ugly Goodwill sweater of a set. Those people are fools, and should be forced to raise my offspring as their own, completely unaware of the substitution until it's too late. Far, far too late.