Tidbits

Listening to Disney music is not a bad way to overcome the umpty-umpth drive to work in the snow. “Pretty good sure as you’re born…”

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In my new office at the DJ we have The Two Guys Who Look Alike Who Don’t Look Alike, and The Guy Who Looks Just Like Them. When I mention that to anybody, they know exactly who I’m talking about.

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The Sword in the Stone is quite the oddest book. I read it about a hundred years ago, and just finished listening to the audio version on my way home last night. It has the narrative drive of pinball machine, and what, exactly, is the intended age of the audience? Not that I didn’t enjoy it. It’s just…unique. Next up on the audiobook queue: The Eyre Affair. I absolutely love the Jack Sprat mysteries by the same author, and have never heard anything but praise for the Thursday Next novels. Hopes are high.

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These are interesting times. I have achieved, simultaneously, loathing and loving as a result of the exact same actions. There are people who want my head on a platter, and there are people offering me the world as my oyster. I prefer a more even keel, with neither platter nor pearl, and I don’t understand why things are so nutty at the moment. Maybe the moon is in Pisces. Or the swallows are coming back to Capistrano. Or maybe it’s sunspots.

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There’s an MHL this weekend, which for me is like a weekend off. I need that. O’C had last weekend off, and he probably needed that. He showed up at the Gem, let a few people genuflect and kiss his ring, and then went back to his atelier to watch Howard the Duck again. I should have gone with him.

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You really need to read this, about the Constitution. It reminded me about this, which I just downloaded. Her American Scripture is in my Top Ten. (Any wonder I like people to argue about resolutions?)

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There seems to be a round robin every day of the week all of a sudden. Why don’t we just eliminate tournaments? Get the top ten or twenty debaters, lock them in a room for a month, and go back at the end and see who’s still standing. It will get them out of everyone else’s hair, and I’m sure they’ll be happy as clams hobnobbing exclusively with one another. (I’ve got five independent arguments to support this, plus a reverse framework, a theory shell, two spikes and enough acronyms to take over the U.S. Army, so don’t try to argue with me.)

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What happens to football players who make a practice of missing practice? Something tells me they do not remain football players.

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Why am I at fault for your ineptitude?

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I am no doubt among the last people among whom you should demonstrate an attitude. I am notoriously patient with many things—stirring risotto, braising the shanks of various random beasts, starting up Windows on my old Dell—but not that. If we are two people on an equal footing trying to solve a problem, we will get together fine. If you perceive me as your problem, we probably will not get together quite so well, even if I am your problem, because by your treatment you have forced me to perceive you as my problem. Which, of course, does not solve any problems.

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I am not perfect. Why do you expect that I should be? Do I exude such perfection from every pore? Have all my previous moves indicated to you that anything less than perfection on my part is incomprehensible? My claims of infallibility are mythical; my fallibility is legendary. You should know that by now.

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Tonight I’ll get all of this out of my system on TVFT. And then we’ll return to normalcy, whatever that is.