We sit and we sigh

I think tomorrow I'll just be leaving directly from work. I don't have to, but it seems judicious. I'll probably need a full day of proper preening to ensure I look the way I want to look without stealing too much attention away from the beautiful bride. It will be a performance to rival Eddie Caminetti's in the Ryder Cup. Of course, at the reunion, I won't have that problem. I'll be free to be as I am: the center of attention.

Lately, I've been listening to the music that Tony Soprano dies too. Ironic that it contains the lyrics:

Oh, the movie never ends
It goes on and on and on and on

But it doesn't, does it? The movie does end. Things do not go on and on and on and on.

Cut to black.

You're just as boring as everyone else

A not too kind individual had the audacity to assert--to my face no less--that life is boring and that for all the pomp and circumstance in my own, I hold no great distinction from the masses at large, that my great life, quantized, is not truly exorbitant. He tried to make the argument that if I lived a thousand lives, on average, because of my rather humble origins, my life would likely hold no distinction and all the allure of my current one is just a matter of haphazardly catching that rarest of treasures, a brief, but stunning smile from she that bestows them best.

You, sir, although you may not deserve the title of a genteel soul, are, as very nearly everyone who disagrees with me is, wrong. I can't possibly be expected to explain in substantial detail why but I know it, as sure as I know anything else: its ingrained in the very fabric of the universe. The truth, sir, is that for you and your supposed misfortunes there are not the infinitely many worlds some would have us believe. There's not some other world out there where everything's gonna be okay. There's just this one, just this rock. So all of these other worlds that might come into being, won't. Only one has, and only one will and that is the same as destiny, and just because you are completely unsure of what that one world will be does not mean that you should exclude the possibility that an, in your own words, exorbitant quantity, is not.

Truly, I weep for you and your lack of imagination. There are kings and queens of this mortal life and discovering in yourself that you are not one is no reason to doubt it, but just evidence of--accurately, I think--low self esteem.

I'm going to use my teeth and my claws

This is just one of those days. I work all day. All day, mind you, I am a little tornado of productivity. I am a damn supernova, burning bright. I've completed my tasks for the big presentation, I downshift into cruise mode, everything is perfect, just wrapping up the details, making sure everything is just so, the simple details one can only perform when the hard work is completed.

My boss comes in to see how everything is going. Everything is fine. I do the work of ten. Nothing holds me back. Two phone calls and a long unbearable pause in which I say nothing, but want to scream as he strokes his beard and stares at the floor, because I know what's coming. Yes, we need to change everything. I don't really mean everything, just maybe a quarter of everything. The presentation? Its still on for tomorrow.

And really, I'm just left with the decision to make it happen or not. I suppose I will, but pardon me if I'm a bit angry about it.

A heart of stone

My entourage was a bit light this weekend. It seems everyone was engrossed with the tale of that little boy and too busy to serve as my buffer about town. I suppose I could have provided myself a little relief had I shared my fortune with someone, but that would have required me play favorites, something I try extremely hard not to do. Everyone who is not me is equal in my eyes.

At any rate, I dared not venture into the concrete jungle without adequate protection, so my weekend was quiet. Next weekend promises to be a roller coaster of events. I'll be going to my onetime home of Baton Rouge for the wedding of dear Maureen. Yes, married, Maureen is getting married. I've been silent on the whole affair because I'm just too busy with myself, but really I wish her all the happiness in the world that is humanly possible with what's his face. No, I'm just kidding, of course I know his name is Gregory. I have the invitation right here: Gregory T. LaBorde.

And then with one raucous party behind me, I'll be heading back to my other onetime home for my high school's--the first one, dear--ten year reunion. Its almost too much drama in one weekend to be surrounded by so many I've known for so long, all wanting to know what has become of me and what fortunes lie ahead. Well, gentle readers, if you've been following along let me come right out and tell you that I will not be responding to any calls for the real Tristram Shandy to please stand up.

Oh, its just awful. I'm sitting here seeing it in print and that attempt at humor is just awful. Please excuse it entirely. I'd much rather have said something about Onegin, but the movie, which is just beautiful in its own right, distorts the whole intent. Well, just know if you are googling at home, it isn't meant for you at all.

I hardly know what to do with myself. My excitement for the coming weekend is unbounded.

Like drinking poison

I had to purchase toothpaste the other day, and as usual was confronted by an overwhelming amount of choices and as usual was practically paralyzed with indecision. You'd think there would be some arrangement where the store would recognize someone of my stature and clear the aisles before my arrival, so I can make my choices in peace, but as yet, they have not hit upon this seemingly obvious service.

At any rate, it seems that toothpaste is one of a few rare products towards which I have no inherent brand loyalty. These little rituals we undertake each day to make our vessels more presentable and preserve them as such, these little chores are the subject of such mass marketing and constant--in this case I use this word exceedingly lightly--innovation the sheer variety available is troubling.

Automatically one might assume that I'd use nothing else than the most expensive product available, but from my vast experience I know quite well that price has nothing to do with performance. I've consulted the tubenets before, and Consumer Reports recommends UltraBrite for its matter of fact performance and price, but I can't even conceive of using the cheapest product no matter how highly it comes recommended.

It seems a big commitment, something I will be cleaning my teeth, my one last set of teeth with for the coming months, which is the larger reason for the indecision. I want something that tastes good, but myself, I want something that promises eternal youth. Where is that toothpaste?

Fittingly Friday

I can't tell you how glad I am its Friday. Ever since I let slip that I had and read a copy of that book, I've been beset on all sides by people wanting and not wanting hints and insights into what they'll own for themselves at midnight tonight. You might think I'd become used to the push and pull of all those around me who want a delectable piece of me, but in truth, its just endlessly tiring.

And sure, the book is a worldwide phenomenon, but in the end its just a book about a scrawny boy. If I had to say one thing about this book that was not in anyway a spoiler, it would be that the language really did pass the boundary of good taste on several occasions. I've always thought of Potter as genial escape, a different world where curses had a unique flavor because of their wizarding origins. Frankly, its not to hard to enjoy a bit of escapism where the author has word replaced 'God' with 'Merlin' in every oath. But more importantly, I've thought of it as an opportunity for young children to be caught up and swept away by a ripple in the majestic ocean that is literature. Sure, Potter is very nearly the lowest grade of literature, but I think Miss Rowling has made an effort to use a thesaurus from time to time, and I've always imagined millions of children with wonder in their eyes asking their hopeful parents what this and that word means, perhaps beginning a love affair with the only common form of expression they will find in this harsh world: words.

So tell me, what are these hopeful parents, who may think these tomes are the tip of the iceberg, supposed to answer when their littlest wizards and witches ask what 'effing' means? Sure, Rowling kept its used down to three times, but I say in a puff of huffle, that it is three times to many.

Your nose is bleeding

A great many of you have told me over the years what a comfort it is to you to know that I am out here. That whatever this life may hold and bear forth, that I am passing through it as some sort of Black Swan, a shocking and surprising confirmation that life may indeed be worthwhile. Of course, I blush and and wave my hand just so, but it never hurts to be reminded of what my mother assured me from a very early age: I am special. And not just in the sense that unlike so many others, I intrinsically knew not to sample the play-doh, even though they make it edible specifically for, well, you, but in the sense that I am called to some higher purpose.

Its not strictly clear what the purpose is, but we can be assured that enjoying finer pleasures in life is a major part of it. There has been some inquisitiveness if the inner persona I've decided to share here will be reflected in real life, and I was a little put off by that. I don't think of myself as so different from what you read here. Sure, I hold my tongue in person, but out of necessity. If uttered aloud, my unique experience has a quieting affect on people. A young friend of mind analogized it thus. He is a world-class violinist, but he likes to play the street corner sometimes. Yet, though the elite dress in their finest, and spare no expense to hear him play in whole buildings specially designed for the purpose, on the street, he is nobody and most will not dare to make eye contact with him.

Can you imagine what it must be like to be me: to have all this talent and value, bottled up into one petite package constantly stretched and pulled in every direction by many who never consider anything but themselves and go through life not fully appreciated? What I'm saying is, when you see me next, don't pass up the opportunity to tell me in person how deeply I've affected your life, plucked you out of the ocean deep and set you aboard a raft in the wide and powerful wake of the starcruiser that is me.

It's all under control

Days of work are always so dull. I can see why so many abandon their journals. The drudgery of a single day is like a weight upon one's chest, pressing harder with every exhalation. I'm sure some future will look at our workdays and consider us slaves to our times, the same way we might look at people of the past.

The most amazing thing happened to me today. Yet the story seems almost too convoluted to explain. I'll, just tell you the end. I ended up taking the limousine the whole way. Originally, it appeared on the invoice as the same cost, but it ended up being $400. The accountant didn't even bat an eye, although I had pre-approved it with her beforehand. She said that it was nothing compared to what others have filed for. I'm sure executives file for that in alcoholic beverages.

I'm thinking of starting a new feature: Erin recommends. Of course, my taste is renowned for its flawlessness. The world should benefit from it. Except that its such a drain. I'm sure if the world were so eager to benefit from my experience they'd send over a sharply dressed man to take notes. And really, I can't trust my suggestions with just anybody. I suppose I'll just have to keep them to myself, although, if its not clear, my life is unattainably more enjoyable than yours.

I have really phoned this posting in. I apologize sweetly. I look around at all the other journals I'm linked to, though, and I can't help but feel even more stunningly superior than normal. I did get an official request to stop referring to the meeting room as "Davy Jones' locker." Although it brings great amusement to the staff at large the higher ups seem to think it has negative connotations. That and perhaps that people had started decorating it appropriately, and it had consequently acquired a somewhat fishy smell. I suppose I should take some comfort that they recognize me as the ringleader.

We're all scared of the future

Oh, the gardening boy seemed to be in danger of having his eyeballs fall out of his head whe he saw it, so I suppose it bears mentioning: I have the seventh book. I'll spare you any details, because I'm sure several of you would just about murder me if I let slip the details even though those very same people will demand some sort of proof beyond my own personal excellence that I merit such a coveted thing.

Its just endings are what they are, aren't they? This is it and no more. For you, darling. For people like me, I'm sure Miss Rowling will continue writing.

There will be no exultation

I'm finally back to a steady internet connection, or really the comfort of my very own computer. Although I made no effort to verify it, the Wyndham claimed to be bathing me in wireless connectivity while I slept.

Frankly, Pittsburgh as a city leaves a great deal to be desired, and will likely never qualify as a desirable destination for me with its ever plummeting population. Oh, Jacob tried his very best. He arranged for a tiny Italian man to chauffeur me about town in a little Porsche 356 Carrera Speedster, but while I could imagine Jackie being ferried around in such a quaint little treasure, the truth is that its just a car and I had to have Jacob repeat all those numbers and names very slowly several times so I'd be sure to remember them as a detail from my trip for you, my gentle reader. There were a thousand other details to remember, and it strikes me that this automotive enthusiasm is just another form of trainspotting. The tiny Italian was an endless supply of humor to me though. He was so serious in everything he did, but when he looked at me, he was quick to smile, and his age had not removed a noticeable spring in his step.

Still, the weather was fine, the catering was to order and I could imagine that it was decades ago, and men were racing for the claim to nothing, but because racing was what they loved. I'll never understand men I think.

There were innumerable other events worth mentioning: I was the lead in this little production, but I'm terribly tired, and have perhaps a half dozen errands to run this evening. I just knew you'd be starved for details. Feel free to prompt me, darling. This is the internet, it can be interactive.

Days replace days

I'll have to leave a bit early today to catch my flight. I'm not looking forward to that part of the trip at all. It used to be a lady of my breeding could look forward to stepping without looking as everyone rushed to tend to her needs. Now, I have to slog through security with the mouth breathers. Honestly, having to remove my shoes in public is just ridiculous. The solution, of course, is a private jet, but I don't have one. Yet. Perhaps some worthy businessman will see me, and although my exterior will not belie the distress of my commoner experience, he'll see instantly that one of these things (myself) is not like the others, even if I do make reference to Sesame Street in this missive, and offer the services of his own.

I've made Jacob promise me none of the awful food the stereotypical Pittsburgher consumes. He mentioned a lovely sounding little Spanish restaurant, Mallorca, where we can enjoy some paella and get a little tight on sangria but it will have to pass my visual inspection first.

If I don't post at all, I won't be thinking of you, but I know you'll be thinking of me.

Cos I'm on fire

I put my stamp on today with authority. Earlier in the week, I had this annoying little ferret of a man, Leonard, attempting to do whatever it is that people of absolutely no proper upbringing or status do. I don't even really want to think about what that is, because it is just totally outside the bounds of good taste. In retrospect, I don't even know why I was at all bothered by his attempts to undermine me. My very self, the nature of me, is unassailable. If there is any fault in myself, its that I ever allowed his outburst to annoy me.

I don't care to boast. It's in bad taste, the type of thing a Leonard might try to do. I'll just say that if I were going to boast, I'd probably do so with the same characteristic as everything else I do in this brief sojourn: perfection.

I will say here what I think brought this on. I'd just hung up the phone with a dear old friend who called me much too late last night. I was already in bed even, and just as I was going to sleep I was thinking that the human brain may be capable of some rudimentary quantum computing. I know its not a truly original thought, but its not one I've ever heard from anyone before, and somehow thinking that reminded me that whatever I am or may be, it is inarguably superior. If we are all rudimentary quantum computers, I can perceive those quantum states that much longer than the Leonards of the world and if I'd just focus on the problem at hand, and let those states settle down, things will be fine.

And then I slept peacefully, and today after all was said and done, Xiao-Xiao, smiled so brightly at me--it is her namesake--I knew everything had come to pass just as I thought it would.

So James Dean

After the drama of this week at work, I absolutely need a break. I don't mean a break where I sip wine in a bubble bath with epsom salts, I mean one where I find myself in a kinder gentler era befitting my nature. Of course, one can't simply travel back in time, but some sort of trip is in order.

I've just this moment been absolutely saved by Jacob. He's arranged accomodations this weekend at the Wyndam in...wait, did I hear him correctly...Pittsburgh? Well the very name of the city seems an affront to anyone of any sensibility at all, but he assures me its nothing of the sort, during the summer anyway. He promises cooler weather, and a lovely picnic in a park as we watch the Pittsburgh Vintage Grand Prix. I hardly know the first thing about cars, much less vintage ones, but Jacob promises its the event of its kind, and if I'm in the right mood, I can just imagine that it will be James Dean piloting The Little Bastard around us. Apparently he knows someone with corporate sponsorship, so its all arranged, and all we have to do is show up and have our whims catered to. I suppose I need to add a little note here that Jacob will be imagining James Dean also. Sorry Jacob, I just don't want to answer the usual questions from those who may not know you.

I suppose I am looking forward to it. I expect the picnic will be picture perfect, and if the mood strikes me I may even take a few photos to share with you my gentle readers. Jacob says they have the cutest little antebellum three-wheel formula cars. That means I won't be posting anything this weekend. I'm sure those of you who have become use to this damsel's daily dose will suffer some separation anxiety, but the hardship should not endure.

Oh, Sorry

I can't tell you what an awful, awful day its been. Just terrible. And its not over. I'd write more, but then I definitely won't get to sleep at a reasonable hour. I'm so sorry. I'm sure you are too. I've just had to suffer so much today. I can tell you this much: if Leonard thinks tomorrow is going to be anything like today, then he is suffering from some kind of pre-tomorrow illness in psychic anticipation of the lack of blood he will have when I drive my stone cold heel spike underneath his right rib cage, through his gall bladder, and into his liver. Its why I buy Jimmy Choos; they can stand up to that sort of abuse.

Are you hoping for a miracle?

My plea for no more phone calls finally resulted in one of support by one individual who's own unassailable taste may very nearly approximate my own. Sweetheart, he cooed, just carry on doing what you do. There is something about being called sweetheart, really the way he says it, that is deeply reassuring. Of course he's so gay you can see it on the telephone. Apparently I need to clarify this point. People--women and men of all sexual persuasions--take me out all the time. I imagine the Dalai Lama isn't hurting for a lunch date either. That doesn't mean we're dating or anything. People just want to spend time with me and I sometimes allow them to, although an appetizer order of romance, sarcasm, math, and language can be a relationship ender. Also, if presented with an np-complete problem I provide the full solution space. I'm just that kind of girl. Some people think this ability is nothing short of miraculous, to which I just smile in response.

Monday, you and I are done. There is nothing good about you except when you leave.

quick post

Sunday, this awful boy dragged me to, I am not making this up, Chotchkies restaurant, and put together the most awful order of appetizers that ended up being the sampler plate, mixed fruit, and two plates of hot wings. Yes, it absolutely could have been worse. There could have just been seven orders of mixed fruit.

Baby, you've got to be more discerning

I didn't have nearly enough to drink last night. I think Rocky was feeling a little underutilized, so I decided to let her stretch her legs a bit. Of course, if Rocky's out, I just don't drink. Maybe one or two, but not enough for Rocky to notice. She's very sensitive.

I went to this quaint little club where the music would be quite a bit better. Around 10PM I got a call from one of my girlfriends. Apparently she went to the same place as last night and Lewis--I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt although as I'm about to reveal he doesn't deserve it--had recognized her and wanted to know where I was and when I'd be showing up. In her words, he brought reinforcements. There was so much disturbing about this whole episode, it nearly upset my entire night. First of all, who goes to the same club two nights in a row? Darling, we're not in Louisiana. There are other places to go. Second, I know you can't be me, but really this is all too tiring to explain. In summary if Lewis is the type to expect to find me at the same club two nights in a row, then he doesn't deserve a second chance not that he ever really would have gotten one. I don't believe in second chances. I know in about five seconds if I'll allow a boy to make me laugh. So, pumpkin, do as you might, but I really can't recommend it. I can't imagine Lewis's wingmen are any better than he is, and you deserve better than that.

Thank me for this blog. I think previously I would have had to have a face to face to outline this. Here I can just dash it off, know that it will be read and consumed and mulled over. You'd think people would learn to accept that I'm always right given my record, but I suppose instinctively people disagree. It never helps my case to bring up this little point, but I'm willing to sacrifice a pawn if it helps me in the campaign.

That's the way it is

I've had another phone call about this perceived alteration in my behavior. This time it was a young man who tried to sound aloof in general. He swore up and down he didn't care one way or the other, but it was all he wanted to talk about. Really, if you take the trouble to interrupt my day, at least develop a little self-awareness before you do. If I spent my day sharing objective truths with everyone who couldn't see the tip of his nose on a sunny day I really wouldn't have time for me.

I know you can't see the tip of your nose clearly unaided, but you do know its there, don't you? Now you've gone and made me violate my resolution. Enough. Absolutely enough. I'll take no more phone calls on this subject, and certainly no more phone calls where the caller claims its not the subject when its plain as his imposition that it is.

And don't get me started how disappointing it is to hear from so many who've got me pegged as whatever it is you've got me pegged as. Silent perhaps. It just makes me want to say something truly reactionary. Thankfully, my impeccable breeding just won't allow it.

I'll pay for you, anytime.

I had way, way too much to drink last night. The details are a bit hazy, but I do remember a lovely boy quite adamant in his affection for me. Oh, I don't think he crossed any line. He was a perfect gentleman really, but he seemed certain that if he kept buying me drinks, he'd have my phone number. These Texan boys are something else, entirely. I suppose I took a bit advantage. For all his loveliness, his interest was fruitless. I could just tell he was ready to profess undying love for me, and I can't have a puppy dog following me around in public.

Anyway, the music was just dreadful and I have an awful headache this morning. Fortunately, I wasn't driving. Probably if had been I would have been too sober to tolerate that boy's advances. I think his name was Louis. Or maybe Lewis. I counted two scars on the back of his right hand. I'm sure he hardly knows they are there, but take note young men, no matter how taut your arms may be, I won't be touched by mistreated hands. You may be lithe and have your hair cut short exactly how I like it, but the details are really what I pay attention to.

Oh well, I'm probably drumming up business for manicurists everywhere as my many internet stalkers read this. Yes, I know all about you. I can see the statistics right here in front of me. Don't think that will help you at all. Obsessing over the public details of my life is an automatic disqualification. Lewis, or Louis, at least you knew not to shorten your name to Lewie or something so atrocious, perhaps you can pay for me again sometime.

I'll go back if you ask me to

I received an inquisitive phone call yesterday. I don't even want to say from whom. In all confidence, I've had one too many admonishments about names here. She,--is that revealing too much information?--bless her, just wanted to make sure that everything was alright. I had just lacquered my nails so I can't be absolutely sure what she said, and I certainly don't want to put any words into anyone's mouth, but I do distinctly remember her saying I just didn't sound myself, that she couldn't even imagine me reading this drivel, much less actually writing it. Well, maybe the word drivel wasn't actually used. That would be putting a word into someone's mouth. So, fine, its my word. But lets just be clear, I have no delusions about the content of these posts, and if the window they act as is one you, my gentle reader, would much prefer had curtains, or, dear me, at least some treatments, then I do apologize. Please consider that I might as well have just moved in and haven't had time to properly decorate. I can imagine that even now that my gentlest readers are, generous as they are, collecting darkly colored canvas and heavy broadcloth to fashion the aforementioned treatments as a gift to me. Please do not misunderstand me. I apologize for the view, but the window shall, for some time anyway, remain, bare.

She and you: all these pronouns are tiring to me, but I made a promise, and of course I will keep it. She asked about the musing, the introspection, and I had, and still have no real response. Didn't I mention the leaf I was overturning? Perhaps I should have identifed it as Manicaria saccifera which the all powerful seeing eye identifies as a candidate for the world's largest. Between fluttering my newly-lacquered nails I assured her, and now you also, not to worry. Of course it is right that you should. There may one day be a government agency tasked with that desirable work and it will enlist you my gentle readers for guidance. I'm probably a bit too fearless to provide reasonable and accurate direction for such an agency, but of course it will remain up to me whether to take its advice or not.

I imagine my real worry is that somehow this window has scared you all away. That this is not the me you know and love with all your hearts and minds, and in truth it is not. We must all keep a part of ourselves apart and if I choose to lay that part bare it must be a bit frightening for those of you not nearly as fearless as myself. But is there some way that I can reassure you that it is truly me reaching out to you through this awkward medium? She advised more comfortable topics concerning Rocky, or my double A bundles of joy, Alexandra and Andrew, and I'm sure such topics will make appearances. A bit of introspection is fitting on the eve of a 10 year reunion, though. I don't think I'll ever truly surpass Mr. Hughes as that towns most famous resident, but I am immeasurably fantastic, a world class wildcat to be sure.

Old Friend

I like to compare certain elements of life to an old friend, of which I have many. An old friend is someone I am completely comfortable with, with whom the selfish things that generally rule my day like little bombastic potentates, reveal themselves to be small enough to quash between my thumb and forefinger. With an old friend transgressions are not just forgiven, but morphed into humorous anecdotes, although that is largely because I am so generous. My own ostensible impositions are really little gifts for those around me. My wake, as it were, if I may mix my metaphors, which you know from experience I will, smells of flowers and ginger, and if it has rocked your boat a bit, well just remember, its the very reason you put to sea.

But back to the old friend. I'm coming to terms with a certain distaste for this type of phrasing. Of course, I'm a proper young lady, and should never dream of improper sentence structure, but these guardians of grammar occupy a wide dominion. I debate whether I should aim for my grammar to sound more conversational, or my conversation to be more grammatical. Of course, my natural inclination is correct. It must be. These grammarians say its alright to pronounce nuclear, sic nucular, because presidents of great (?) stature--Messrs. Carter, Clinton and Bush--have said it so publicly. Well, I'm of at least as great stature as these three. Combined. Although not literally, figuratively of course. Grammarians take note: I'm making sentences out of words for effect. And I'm also opening paragraphs with sentences that are just lies and lies. A fresh start is required.

Silent Alarm by Bloc Party. I distrust public endorsements, so. For me, they are practically censures. Surely someone with my impeccable taste is not similarly regarded, though. I've had this gem nestled away for even I don't know how long although it can't have been more than two years, and by the strangest circumstances had to give it a listen. And now it and I are like old friends. I hardly want to part with it. If you too have let it escape your attention, redirect it. Of course, your tastes may not be mine, but then that is a very poor reflection on your tastes. Perhaps you don't have any old friends at all. I weep for you if that's the case. On the inside of course, darling. Only on the inside.

What's so great about America anyway?

It's not my aim to have a political posting of any sort but I think its an important question on a day like today. I won't pontificate on the answer although some trivia-absorbed part of me would like nothing better than to share some minutiae with my gentle readers and they should not doubt that I have them in copious supply or at least access to a search engine--whose very existence might serve as some small part of the answer to the above question--that can supply me with them.

To the point, I'm urged. Things are good, or even great, or whatever exaggeration we might back up with a wide smile and I think part of life is coming to terms with what it is, but things can always be better. I just can't tell you the draw to affix rhetorical phrasing to the end of that sentence. We could not be mired contentiously in a global conflict that claims what is presumably our nation's 17th most precious national resource, or we could not have an intractable, addlepated, self-delusional, mental lightweight as our leader. We could not be perpetually on the verge of global socio-economic collapse for a myriad of reasons. And frankly, summer television could be a hell of a lot better.

To the point, I tacitly promised. Maybe today should not be about the necessarily infinite ways we are not perfect, but the very few ways in which we are. Today, a friend shared with me a delectable chicken salad that alone made me desire some forum in which to talk trash to other, necessarily inferior, chicken salad producing nations. Perhaps though, nothing inherent in our nation led to its artistry. Perhaps I am just patriotic today. The tall--nearly everyone is to me--lanky, oddly speckled Mexican boy that waters the lawn in the afternoon nonchalantly suggested that the people who read this, even if they did know who he was, wouldn't stop to pick him up bleeding to death on the side of the road on the way to fetch me from the airport. I don't think I should have to tolerate him coming in and making comments like that even if they are so very, and rightly so, true.

I've just thought of a missed opportunity. An acquaintance: a pudgy, sweaty, hairy, disgusting little man--a self described contrarian--considers it endlessly humorous to the point of repeating it beyond acceptable taste that in the movie The Big Lebowski, the main character, The Dude without fail misidentifies every animal he comes in contact with. Perhaps I might share in his amusement if I incorrectly identified every animal, or rather human person, who appeared on this page.

Similarly I wonder if it is possible to have an ironic journal altogether. Careful, my inclination is to throw a question mark in there. I write every triviality that emerges during this brief exercise and simultaneously despise each and every one. That is quite enough nonsense for today. Yesterday I was just too tired to write anything truly insubstantial.

Sun

It strikes me that we are carving out meager existences on a roughly spherical rock a certain distance from a hellish ball of fire from which light, the fastest thing we know of, in truth a thing we think defines the upper limit of how fast a thing can be, takes a full seven minutes to reach us, and we are not to even look directly at it, lest its power at that fearsome distance do permanent damage to our impermanent selves. It strikes me because too often I am impatient in a way that is unreasonable. Light, I think, is truly impatient, arranging to travel at the upper bound, and also refusing, except when marshaled by weird science experiments and I'm told, matter also, to travel any slower.

I have this long drive and I've grown to accept it a little bit, but only a very little bit. Today, the whole network was down. No internet for an entire day. Tomorrow is our independence day. I suspect I should do something special, and I will but largely because everything I do is special because I'm the one doing. The little asian girl checking me out at the supermarket seemed to want to discuss my plans. I smiled my smile and moved on. Its funny how the short people take solace in each other. I suppose I'm one of them, but somehow I feel apart.

I am not creative

The whole problem with keeping up a blog is that life is in reality stunningly boring. It is quite literally the longest thing I will ever do. And despite that I'll probably cling to it when I notice it slipping away. I think people who think they are creative are actually quite uncreative. They can make stuff up, but they can't conceive that someone else, many people in fact, have already had that exact same thought, but better. And if they didn't, it was because that thought wasn't worth thinking.

Anyway, it turns out I don't have to be creative. A dreamy Puerto-Rican boy with dark hair and a round face looked up from his sparkling new iPhone and told me that people just steal. And I'm not above theft. Well, maybe in the property sense, but ideas are free.

So, I'm turning over a new leaf. Rather than a compilation of mundane life--Taylor your report on a self-cleaning oven is almost too much to bear--I will rarely be a character in my posts, except of course as the author. And perhaps even then you will question my identity or else I wouldn't be a very good author which perhaps I'm not and I will try to keep the arguments with myself down to a minimum even though their fomentation is likely to spill onto this page often.

The third episode of Flight of the Conchords aired last night. I don't know why I like it so much. It's truly terrible. There is absolutely nothing memorable about the show except that it seems to tickle me just right. Probably I'm a bit promiscuous with comedy. That "just right" is not just anything, is it? Its rather a wide tract, isn't it? You know I smile throughout the day for no particular reason: like the West Wing's Toby, happiness is my default position. It takes little effort to liberate a laugh from me. But a laugh isn't truly representative of how we feel, is it? There is social laughter and nervous laughter, but how many of us find ourselves laughing by ourselves? You maniacal laughers can keep your mental hands down even though you wouldn't dare to show them publicly anyway. Anyway, when something makes me laugh out loud while I'm alone it deserves a mention, dontcha think?

Resolution: eliminate rehetorical questions in daily posts.