a lot of sentimental valiums

I swear I've thought of six different things to blog about in the last week or so, and not a one is occurring to me now that I need some form of procrastination. Working this many hours sucks all non-election-related thoughts into some secondary brain area that will not be accessible for another, what, 10 days? Come back, secondary brain area.

Rufus Wainwright's "Poses" has flooded back into my life suddenly, after I overdosed on it a couple years ago and after XPN wouldn't stop its funding drive even after I gave money. Public radio stations should develop some kind of magical feature that lets you plug in a secret code to prove you already ponied up and turns off the heckling. I still feel guilty and the begging makes me sad. Anyway, I needed background noise, couldn't deal with more election-talk on TV or money-talk on the radio, and thus could only choose from one of the three CDs I have in my office. One is Zero Seven, which makes me fall asleep, and one is... I forget, but it leaves me with Rufus. And I am reminded that he is lovely. The end.

Another reason to love Anne Lamott: The Rights of the Born.

Randomness concluded. When the secondary area is re-activated, there will be more content, I swear...

birds do it, bees do it...

... even really blurry turtles do it, apparently. Fall in love, that is. Here by popular demand:


It's book week at Slate, and today there was this, from this:

I read somewhere once that in the 1960s fiction writers were troubled by the notion that life was becoming stranger and more sensational than made-up stories could ever hope to be. Our new problem -- more profound, I think -- is that life no longer resembles a story. Events intersect but don't progress. People interact but don't make contact.

This is well-said.

This is an anemone. Anananananemone.

gluggle-uggle-uggle

We will have to wait for the professional photographer for good photos of Shannon's lovely aquarium-style birthday, because almost every picture I took yesterday came out looking like I'd been holding the camera underwater with the fish. Nineteen out of 20 photos without the flash are too blurry to keep. It's funny how stuff begets stuff; this new camera, which I adore and have owned for less than six months, now only makes me want a better camera.

But what I can do is transcribe my favorite conversation from yesterday. The scene: Shannon and Gaby are standing in front of a big, backlit wall of oversized photos.

S: What's that one?
G: Ladybugs.
S: What's that one?
G: Clams.
S: And that one?
G: Bees.
S: How about that one?
G: BORED.

Ha! So adorable, that kid, and her mom is pretty great too. I feel acutely lucky to have her in my life, as a matter of fact. I can't believe we've known each other for seven years at this point, and that we're both knocking on 30's door.

OK, time for baseball -- oh hey, it's the postseason! Suddenly, it is the 42 seconds out of the year I care about this dumb sport, and I need to figure out which channel Fox is and start staying up way too late to watch extra innings and stuff. Speaking of late, go Yank... er, wait a minute...