The dry erase board where I keep future blog topics has written on it, “Why I Read” as today’s. I have no idea what I intended to say. I know why I read, and I’m capable of telling you, but, as I sketched out the idea, it seemed trite, like an attempt to mine gold from, “because I like to.” That’s not good enough to waste your time—and mine—on.
The winners of last week’s contest have been notified, and the books are in the mail. If you weren’t notified, you didn’t win. Sorry if that’s abrupt, but in a world of war, famine, disease, and Ted Cruz, not winning a copy of my book does not qualify as disappointment. Buck up.
Whatever The Beloved Spouse is cooking had better be ready soon. My office is directly above the kitchen and the aroma is enough to make Doris Day peddle her ass for a taste. (If you don’t get that, it’s because you’re too young to know who Doris Day is and too lazy to look her up. I can’t help you with either.)
Considering Boston and St. Louis had the two best records in baseball this year, there sure is a lot of
Little League sandlot shit going on in the World Series. (Apologies to Little Leaguers. I watch your World Series every year. You’d never do some of the stuff the big kids have done this week.)
My nickname is “Mr. Silver Lining.” It’s appropriate: I came up with it myself. Here’s how determined I am not to harsh anyone’s mellow: The Beloved Spouse and I have a calendar where we post what’s for supper every night. (Yes, it’s OCD, but we never fall prey to standing in the kitchen, six o’clock at night, with no idea what to make, nothing is thawed, tossing a coin to decide between Wendy’s and Subway.) I have promised her, if I ever learn I have a terminal disease, every day’s block will read “steak and ice cream.” If that’s not finding the bright side, I don’t know what is.
I take the fact I am considered to be pre-diabetic as evidence against the concept of a just and merciful God. I drink less than a care of beer a year; the house bottle of Jack Daniel’s lasts five years, minimum; I’ve never smoked a cigarette in my life, legal or otherwise; I’ve never used an illegal drug; never engaged in risky sexual practices; I indulge in nothing to excess and make a conscious effort to treat others the way I’d like to be treated. Forget heaven and hell; you’d think He’d weigh me in the balance and say, “Fuck it. Let him eat the Oreos.”
Speaking of treating others as I’d like to be treated, that’s a great idea, regardless of what religion you practice, or if you practice none at all. I like the idea so much, I have developed King’s Corollary to the Golden Rule: I treat others as I would like to treated myself. In fact I think so much of them, I assume they believe the same thing. Therefore, to those of you who act like arrogant, selfish, empathy-lacking pricks, I feel free to assume that is how you want to be treated, and will happily accede to your wishes.
Lou Reed died today. He’s about to embrace an entirely new meaning of “velvet underground.”
After satisfying no one during the government shutdown, I can only assume the horse John Boehner rode in on isn’t turning its back on anyone.
Six hundred words is a good length for a blog post. I promise to do better on Wednesday.