Despite some mildly dire weather predictions, Memorial Day was lovely as could be. The whole weekend was, in fact.

I can't tell you everything, since I've gone off slogging. Suffice it to say, The Mack is back. I had begun to think, with good reason, that I had lost my mojo, and was kicking around Back Bay Friday looking for it when strolling across Copley Square I ran into an old FWB who moved away last year.

Handsome as ever—still built like a brick shithouse—and so polite and obliging. Always a perfect gentleman.

As for the mojo. It was kind of like when you're all frantic—"Where are my glasses? Where are my glasses?" And someone's like, "um, they're on your face." And you realize you're wearing them.

I spent the better part of this afternoon in the garden, where the lupine's in bloom. Thanks to my garden guru Tony I have several—some pink, some blue, and some purple, all gorgeous about now:


The Siberian Irises, also a gift from Tony, are about to make their appearance, too:


I spent the better part of my time there pruning the lilacs so that next year's bloom will be as glorious as this year's was. I did it because Tony told me to, but I have also read that lilacs set their buds for the next year shortly after this year's blooms fade, so the time to prune to ensure a robust bloom next year is now. Removing the faded or browning flower/seed clusters is enough.

Tony dropped in while I was doing that, and ended up repairing my gate, which was in pretty bad shape.

There was some talk of The Mad Defecator, although there've been no reports of him so far this year. Tony has some theories on who it is, and we are laying odds on when and whom he will strike. I will, of course, keep you posted.

I did manage to take in some actual Memorial Day activities between the gardening and mojo-maintenance. Somerville's Memorial Day Parade was Sunday...


...and allowed me to indulge my marching band fetish, although I had to suffer through my visceral aversion to Shriners to get my fix.


I have enormous respect for the charity work they do, and even admire their spirit, but they scare me. I'm sorry, but they do.

The scrappy marching bands did not disappoint, though. There were several ragtag brass ensembles playing all the old standards—from "Rocky's Theme" to a rousing "When The Saints Go Marching In." One even threw in a little Santana ("Smooth") to spice things up.

I had some quality time with Jay hanging out on the stoop Sunday Evening as well. We got to talking music, and he mentioned Manfred Mann's Earth Band's version of "Blinded by the Light"—you know, the line: "wrapped up like a douche..."

I was like, actually, it's "revved up like a Deuce," and he rolled his eyes, like, "whatever, dude."

I asked him if he'd ever heard the original Bruce Springsteen version, from Springsteen's more flamboyant days as the skinny, scruffy, wicked horny troubadour of Asbury Park NJ, in those painted-on bell-bottoms.

I told him, in Springsteen's soaring version it was clearly not "wrapped up like a douche," but "cut loose like a Deuce." But he was unimpressed.

Changing the subject, he asked me if I had heard that La Contessa Bakery was closing.

I am not someone who doesn't think that all good things must come to an end. And anyway, there's a sushi bar moving in to the spot La Contessa's vacating. And in my personal hierarchy of needs sushi outranks sweets. Sorry.

Plus, this leaves an opening for my boulangerie. I still need a silent partner. Any takers?