Sunday, August 05, 2012


As an opening, The Eleven is engaged. Very happy. I don't know a better way to write that news - now you have it.

We are on our way back from a week in Vermont; in Danbury, CT, to be exact. I think nearly all of my readers were actually in Stowe with us so my update might wander a bit from the norm. The weather was clear and hot for most of the week. P., L., and I drove up to Craftsbury Common one lovely afternoon and if you'd like to find me five-to-seven years from now then you'll have to drive a ways into the Northeast Kingdom. We can get X working at the high school and I'll finagle my way into work as an in-house cook/chef at the college. I'm not kidding.

Sam Johnson. I don't know if that's his real name, but based on vague internet work he's the man we call the 'slack wire king', of Burlington, VT. I saw him on Church St. in the summer of 2006 - a consummate professional entertainer. Apparently, he's worked of late in Washington State and New Zealand. He has no internet presence, except for a few youtube clips, and we'd hoped to see him at this weekend's Festival of Fools in town. It wasn't to be - his mystery life and, in fact, actual presence on Earth is standing on shaky ground.

G. won the second Ducketta on the river last night. My entry, Nut 3 (heir to defending champion, Nut 1) drown at the first challenge. Needless to say, he was unable to keep the syndicate's winning ways intact. I managed to defend my Stowe Invitational Golf in Miniature title via an absolutely lucky 18th hole hole-in-one; a move that took me from two strokes down to the trophy. Wholly unfair, but what can you do? The three teens all spend a morning ziplining out at Smuggler's Notch, and gabbed for a few hours afterwards about the seven zips - one that ran for 1,000 feet. One of their tour partners was filming a bit for the resort and if you look quickly you can spot all three in the video.

X has a new job - it was a busy week - that should commence in about a month. Updates as the time nears.

Fantastic dinners at both A Single Pebble and Cafe Shelbourne.

Lastly, I hate the New Yorker's new e-reader format. Consider yourselves lucky to only have to hear about it for one sentence.

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