I really need to get my wipers fixed. My sweet dad did some exploring under the hood of my little Chevy and pinned down the problem and it will be fixed on Tuesday, but in the the mean time driving around in the dark in the pouring rain makes me feel like I'm taking stupid risks with my physical well-being. Stupid, uninteresting risks. Sustaining bodily harm because I couldn't quite see the edge of the road on an unlit southern stretch of Wadsworth Boulevard in a heavy rainstorm doesn't carry the cool factor of being injured while say, spearing large fish in a heavy rainstorm from a raft off the coast of some unnamed island in the South Pacific. Although that might be relative-- if I were an islander and driving through the south-metro suburbs of Denver were something wild and exotic. . .well, then. There's cultural relativity for you.

Tonight I went up to north Denver to have dinner and visit some galleries with an artist friend of mine. Another fantastic thing about my beloved city-- First Friday. On the first Friday of every month, most of the galleries stay open late (many choose that night for opening receptions for new shows) and people do the �gallery walk� and go from one open door to another all evening. He had made me dinner at his house before we left, but First Fridays are also a great night for free dinner, if you don't mind having a calorically overloaded meal of hors d'oeuvres. It was a good night-- he showed me some work he's done on the house (he bought an old c. 1920s fixer-upper last fall, and he has me all inspired every time I visit) and we got on his new motorcycle and drove through one of my favorite neighborhoods in the whole city to see some new art. �Art�, in some cases. While we were in the Edge Galllery it began to rain. We ran across the street to Pirate Gallery, which tonight was full of strange little boxes that buzzed and tinkled and klunked when, as invited, we touched them, and little vignettes viewed with optical devices. I like it when art can just be whimsical. Craig Robb (the perpetrator of whimsy) did a fantastic job of making me smile tonight, despite my wet locks. He may have been trying to say something more, but I didn't look for the statement-- it was effective because it could be enjoyed on numerous levels. Eventually my friend and I had played with all the art, and the rain wasn't letting up, and the seat of his motorcycle wasn't getting any drier so we just got back on and drove in the rain. Denver is beautiful in the rain on a wet, slick night, I've decided. He made me a cup of hot chocolate to warm up with and we talked for a while, maybe too long. He made a feint at that -- the verboten of �we hang out so much, maybe we should try dating�. He barely grazed it and I steered it in the other direction and the conversation recovered, but it was enough that that I still felt a little melancholy when I got home. He's a great friend, I've known him for years. Years. I shouldn't even say anything, it's the only second time in at least a year, if not two, that he's made a miniscule hint at it. I grimace at it. There's no chemistry, not that kind. He's amazing and I want him to find somebody but it isn't me. I thought about that with the streaky rain obscuring my windshield as I came back south, hoping that when I got to Becky's party I'd be able to laugh with other people and get it off my mind for a while. I drove around her neighborhood as the rain got more intense and never found her house. I came back home, did some psychology homework, and am ready for bed but it's still raining. Between feeling downish and the rain on the windows I can't sleep and so I'm writing.

It's supposed to be sunny again tomorrow. I think the frivolity of another street fair is calling my name.