Christopher Hitchens is a genius

... and also, this just in: water is wet.

Christopher Hitchens writes an excellent argument against Turkey joining the European Union. It's no surprise, as Mr. Hitchens has done nothing but make good sense for years.

For the record, my intellectual infatuation turned into a throbbing, rock-hard man-crush the day he flagged the bird not once but twice at the slavering, Pavlovian, "Real Time" audience when he dared to disagree with their collective, knee-jerk, leftist mob mentality. He rocks.

"X-Men Origins: Wolverine" review - Roger Ebert's review is a willfully clueless pile of elitist dung

If you're going to read movie reviews, there is a technique to it: you find a movie reviewer you can live with, and follow him. The reasoning: no one can tell you with certainty whether you'll like a movie; it's a subjective finding unique to the viewer. Therefore, you find an opinion source and get to know it. If you and your reviewer share some appreciations, you can get an idea of where they diverge, and make allowances to determine whether what they enjoy will mean you will enjoy it too.

I find parallels with Roger Ebert, although I haven't really investigated others, and maybe I should. His recent review of "X-Men Origins: Wolverine" was so far off the mark, I have to wonder if he's heavily medicated, the first man to have a menstrual cycle, or he has found a snarky, bitchy ghost-writer. I read his review and had real concerns about seeing the thing. He gives the movie two stars, and launches a more-fervent attack than a good movie can warrant, picking at failures of goals that the movie was never intended to achieve.

Example:

"Their story starts in "1840 -- the Northwest Territories of Canada," a neat trick, since Canada was formed in 1867, and its Northwest Territories in 1870."

Well, shit, Rog, what should they have printed in the subtitle: longitude and latitude? Coordinates aren't visually digestible in an action flick, ya dumb dick!

Further example:

"It is Hugh Jackman's misfortune that when they were handing out superheroes, he got Wolverine, who is for my money low on the charisma list. He never says anything witty, insightful or very intelligent; his utterances are limited to the vocalization of primitive forces: anger, hurt, vengeance, love, hate, determination. There isn't a speck of ambiguity. That Wolverine has been voted the No. 1 comic hero of all time must be the result of a stuffed ballot box."

In other words:
"Lots of people like Wolverine, but I don't, so I'm gonna take my own flimsy, milquetoast claws and slap at this movie like an anemic six-year-old girl."

For readers of the comic book, Wolverine has charisma and backstory by the metric ton. He puts the "bad" in badass, and the character's popularity has spawned storylines more proliferate than a hydra's tie rack. For those who hadn't found the character in comic books, they'll just have to get by on the the raging charisma of Hugh Jackman, a chief (X-)factor that drove the ascendant, runaway success of the preceding three X-Men movies. Yeah, what a spindly, meager example of charisma, hey, Ebert?

"There is little dialogue, except for the snarling of threats, vows and laments, and the recitation of essential plot points. Nothing here about human nature. No personalities beyond those hauled in via typecasting. No lessons to learn. No joy to be experienced. Just mayhem, noise and pretty pictures."

It's an action film, you clueless fruit! The Wolverine character is about rage, a superhero who can be battered but not broken, who has the capacity to be stunned but never stopped. He is a relentless, tireless agent of revenge. This is not "The English Patient," and I thought Ebert would understand that. Complaining that Wolverine doesn't learn lessons is like saying that Braveheart didn't have enough car chases! It completely misses the point.

Ebert finally, petulantly admits: "Oh, the film is well-made," then immediately complains and wonders that its "gifted director" makes an effort to diversify his works by making this a film that dabbles in another genre. Yes, how could a director want to achieve Hollywood success by making a film people will pay to see?! What a narrow, ignorant view.

It is a telling tribute to a very good action film that Roger Ebert sets out to eviscerate it, and this limp-wristed pseudo-savaging is the worst he can do. It's the photo negative of damning with faint praise: commendation by faint condemnation.

Go see this movie, getcha some popcorn, and try not to learn any lessons. It's a great ride.

Stupid Thing of the Week

Last Sunday I got ambitious and threw myself into some yard work. I'd thought we had some white, cotton masks so I didn't grab any at the hardware store. I returned home to find that I was mistaken. "I'll just tough it out," I thought to myself.

Two-and-a-half hours later, I had mowed and weedwhacked my way through quite a bit of fire safety and beautification chores, and settled in for the evening. I had also inhaled my own body weight in powdered grasses and weeds, and my histamine levels quietly climbed through the roof.

That night my sinuses locked up tighter than a frog's butthole, my sample of Nasonex ran out (that shit's magic) and I didn't sleep worth a damn. The next day I realized that not only were my sinuses doomed, but that my upper respiratory didn't like the idea of me snorting a fat line of ragweed, either.

I've spent the last week metabolizing mother nature's insidious fluff, and coughing long, dry and hoarse, like a dog trying to hack up a block of wood. It sounds worse than it is, but it's still pretty f*%&ed up. I'm looking forward to sitting in a movie theater today and gagging and hacking and snorting. In between fits I plan to wheeze and squeal piglike, to summon up unspoken references of swine flu amongst the captive moviegoers who share my air.

Feeling better, though.

Frame of reference

Parents say that they learn from their kids, and I'm experiencing that. An example:

My boy is four. As a four year-old, he is developing the swashbuckling habit of running in one direction, but giggling and looking in another. He's good enough at running that he takes it for granted, watching his feet pound the earth beneath him, or looking back at his pursuer for unadvisably extended periods of time. He'll learn soon enough that he'll be money ahead to monitor the immediate forward, but it's one of those things one doesn't appreciate until one experiences it for oneself.

So, he regularly crashes and burns. And when he does, he sometimes weeps like a murder victim clinging to life. As a father I hate to see him suffer, and I also recognize the human tendency to occasionally milk a mild injury beyond the pain it's likely to have caused without drawing blood.

It occurs to me that even minor spills test his known boundaries for pain. He's only been ambulatory for a couple of years now, and falling down is thankfully the major source of pain in his life. Therefore every time he eats it, as far as he's concerned it could be the worst pain he's ever felt. On his threshold of pain, skinning his knee tops the charts, tripping and smacking his head against drywall is as close to death as his frame of reference allows.

My point is that when I comfort him, I assure him that the pain will pass, and soon. It further occurs to me that it's fair advice for me as well.

I have spent hours, days, (months if you can believe it) dreading a sting that I fear will come. Sometimes it did, and sometimes it didn't. Will my wife reject me? Will my boss fire me? Will I fail to make the rent/mortgage? The time spent in a slow-motion flinch, a tensing, squinting worry that was far worse than the actual, eventual pain. A pain which, I'm happy to say, went away. Broken ankle, broken heart, broken social compact, they suck, but not nearly as bad as I thought they would, and often not as long. The pain will pass, and sooner than you think.

Once you've been kicked in the teeth a time or two, you tend to gain a steadiness from it. It's what I imagine allows boxers to do what they do. You ever been punched in the fucking face? That shit hurts, but these guys make a living getting drilled dozens of times on and about the face by somebody who's good at it. And they manage. Once you've been there and survived it, surmounted it, it still hurts, but you come away realizing it didn't kill you. You can face further blows and realize: "I've been hit harder than this."

I only recently came to understand this resilience, and I think it's a primary reason that happy people appear as buoyant as they do. They've been knocked down, but they realize that it's not likely to be the end of the world. Nobody ever gets more than one death blow, and it makes damned little sense to spend your whole life leaning away from it, especially when it's even money whether you'll see it coming anyway.

Bill Maher is downright hilarious

I'm catching Bill Maher's "Be More Cynical," and it's just one of the funniest, smartest, most insightful pieces of funny business I've seen.

Wow.

Sibling revelry

I got to see my brother yesterday. He's far enough away that we don't visit a lot. I was pleasantly surprised that he's looking better, feeling better. He's lost some of the weight his medication put on him, and was mobile and clear-headed. I worry about him, and it was a happy relief to see some improvement. Good on 'im, as the Australians say.

Also, his kids were impressive in appearance and demeanor. Growing up good-looking and well-behaved. Good on them, too.

If I should (nearly) die...

"Morbid fascination with death" is a term often attributed to people who spend an inordinate amount of time thinking or researching the subject. One who doesn't look close enough might make the mistake of painting me with such a brush. They'd be wrong, but not as far off as you might think.

I was listening to NPR's Fresh Air again today, and an E.R. doctor was on, talking about the many decisions and circumstances involved with impending death. It not only brought to the surface the struggles during my own mother's last days (and years), but considerations about my own. That makes two fantastic, provocative interviews in a row - nice going F.A.!

A degree of intrinsic comfort is afforded to me whenever it comes to thoughts of my own demise. Maybe it's because I'm fat and happy and live a comfortable life, that the specter of Death appears distant, that the idea is not discomforting or threatening. Perhaps it is because the idea of The End represents in part a laying down of life's burdens. I don't welcome it, but for some reason I take a measure of pleasure in recreationally considering its aspects. I've cheerfully blogged about the topic before, focusing on the practical matter of disposing of my bloated, smelly carcass. Today I'll muse on my medical concerns, assuming we get the chance to see death coming, rather than an abrupt end where practical medical arrangements are not a factor.

The consideration of all of the desires, possibilities and circumstances involved in a person's foreseen-but-unavoidable death are more than another mortal should be saddled with. If the slightest care is taken to consider the wants of the decedent-to-be, there are no wrong answers. Do the best you can, more or less - that's plenty.

I certainly have my own worries and desires should something awful happen to my corpus ridiculi, but they wax and wane and slosh around in my head, and what I want now at a chubby and spry 37 may not pan out if I am stricken with a disease or simply the effects of old age. With that in mind, it borders on the narcissistic to demand from family, doctors and/or lawyers that this or that be done to the point of lawsuits and squabbling. *I* don't even know for sure what I want. I'm not comfortable at all with feeding tubes or respirators or transfusions, but since I'm not burdened with an organized faith to tell my how to live (and die), thank god those religious points are moot. Plus, I'm not currently prepared to anticipate the labyrinthine possibilities before they (probably won't) happen, much less write them all out. Call me lazy, but I'm taking the cheap and easy way out; call it my legacy.

My desires are more about practicality than pride, although pride can factor into it. My concerns aren't much different than many people's, including those I heard of my parents' when such discussions were necessary: comfort versus pain, and care versus cost. If I'm in pain, numb me. If I'm drooling, moaning or unresponsive, do what you can stand. Unfortunately, with the state of modern care, the cost of hospital stays dwarf the same stays in luxury hotels, so long term care is just out. I'll be goddamned if my hanging on for another month is worth the cost of a home or massive, crushing debt.

Bullet.

Even if home care is an option, it's not a likely candidate, especially if I'm unable to think, communicate or care for myself in basic ways. I don't doubt that my family loves me enough to wipe my ass and feed me a few times a week, but I've seen households that live that way and it is repulsive to me on the same level as torture. Not only does it trouble me (maybe this is where pride comes in, I don't know), but in that event I would consider my caretakers/loved ones the tortured more than myself.

This whole discussion changes direction on a dime - what if there's hope of a cure or other uptick? What if there's question about who owns the legal right to decide? God save me from being a Terry Schiavo. These are the excruciating twists that madden good people, and I don't want any part of it.

Again: bullet.

Smother me with a pillow, pull my plug or trip over my oxygen hose before I or anyone I care about suffers from any unanswerable questions, impossible ethical knots or horrendous financial responsibility owing to the our collective, hideous inability to assemble a fair method of funding and managing a medical care system.

On the other hand, if I'm rich as a lord or my insurance is top-notch at the time, hey, let's talk about this for a minute. Fluff my pillow, and swab my aft deck, and be quick about it. But otherwise leave me out of it, and let my loved ones lose not a moment of sleep about it.

Fight Night - iss awn!

The UFC is revving up and letting loose tonight with a new Fight Night, free on Spike! After that, it's the season premiere of "The Ultimate Fighter," the only reality show I know of where the players don't just threaten to beat each other up, it's part of the format!

Hoo, I'm gonna enjoy it... Grab me a beer, willya?

John Cougar Melancholy

I was fortunate to catch an interview with John Mellencamp on NPR this morning. I'm still a fan of his, having begun listening to his music in the early 80's or so. I enjoyed his songs about loneliness and areas of society (both the corners and the wide-open spaces) brimming with inequity, as well as lighter, more hopeful fare.

I've heard him on the "Bob and Tom Show" syndicated radio program and found him to be surprisingly funny. The NPR interview and his writing on his website revealed him to be surprisingly articulate as well. With all this surprise, you'd think I expected him to be some dull, grunting moron; certainly not. His sense humor was just so well-developed, his written observations and concerns very deep and clearly-expressed. Maybe it's the format of his music that scrambled my expectations: a three-minute song is a very different from an hour-long interview.

Anyway... I digress, but then, that's what this damned blog is for, isn't it?

The point I'm trying to thrash towards is that I haven't bought a Mellencamp album in years, maybe decades. I want to, and it may be largely because of the history and nostalgia I share with an artist whose music I started enjoying during my adolescence. Maybe that's enough.

However, I stopped buying albums because they stopped being any fun for me. For several albums up to that point, the songs had become drearier and sadder, and fewer of them on each album even tried to have hope or humor. The number for the Suicide Hotline should have been printed on each album cover. Specifically, the last music of his that I bought was a CD single of "Key West Intermezzo/I Saw You First." It was a longing work about a girl he saw but didn't approach, or something - it's been years. So, for one thing, I don't know what the fuck an "intermezzo" is, and for me the song was another masochistic wallow in depression.

I also saw what I thought was a strange rise in a techno-pop beat which really threw me. It just wasn't what I thought of when I thought of John Mellencamp. On the other hand, he's always had a rebellious and independent streak, and so I figured: "If this is what he's putting out, it must be what he wants to do," as opposed to something a corporate goon had forced him to do. I figured the artist was moving and growing away from me as a fan, and so I let it go at that.

Has it gotten any different? Is he still banging out despondent tunes with synthesized percussion that alienates me as a listener? I don't know. Judging a book by its cover, I see that his discography since has been largely black-and-white works of a down-looking John M. The NPR interview proclaims: "...Mellencamp is in the midst of a folksy, pessimistic streak on his new album." It doesn't give me a lot of hope.

Has he forgotten the hopeful half of "It's A Lonely Ol' Night?" where a black hole of desperate loneliness is balanced with the prospect of sharing that lonely ol' night with another forlorn soul in the cold emptiness? What about the tragic pointlessness of "Rumble Seat," and how it turns around and declares:

"Tomorrow is a new day
Gonna make these dreams come true
I'm gonna believe in myself
I'll tell you what Im gonna do
I'm gonna stop puttin myself down
I'm gonna turn my life around"

I haven't heard the kind of gritty optimism and insouciant rebellion John had sung in a helluva long while. I miss it a lot. I'll check out some samples on his website, and see if our tastes have adopted closer parallels. I hope so.

Self-conscious

I have yet to answer that question they asked me in grade school: "What do you want to be when you grow up?" Although I find the question frustrating because of my inability to answer it, I have found a useful website for those solving the same puzzle: the assessment test at Career Zone California.

The result of the form wasn't all that enlightening, but whilst filling it out, it occurred to me: one personality trait I've identified is that I'm "all about being all about it." I am fascinated by New Things. I learn about them quickly and I can summon an uncommon amount of enthusiasm for them. My life and home are littered with evidence of studies about French, stand-up comedy, the outdoors, art, blah blah blah bluh-blah. Some interests persist, but mostly it's like speed dating at a job faire. "Time's up everybody, move on to the next vocational table!"

Unfortunately, I eventually fall out of love with what has now become Old Thing, and am ready to be dazzled by the new New Thing. There is stuff that I will do for free for a New Thing that I wouldn't do for love or money for an Old Thing.

I wish it were different. I've tried to change it, I've tried to adjust it, but I can't help it. Apparently ADHD guides and defines everything in my life, and all I can do at this point is to try to find a vocation or lifestyle that would make a positive out of this bewildering, quasi-amnesiac inability to focus.

I am open to suggestions. Something in the entertainment industry would be nice...

"I've just gotta be me" or "This explains a lot"

I have long noted inwardly the clash of two very different forces in my approach to life. On one hand, there is the outward compulsion to conform, to be 'normal.' It doesn't sound like much to ask.

On the other, there is the inner impulse to be myself. In movies, in school and in conversation, there is always the noble and near-holy moral of a story to "just be yourself." "To thine own self be true." To put it diplomatically, I have always been an individual. I learned French in a state that is flooded with Spanish-speakers. I taught myself to juggle for no reason at all. I not only made balloon animals at my kid's preschool last week, but I taught two of his teachers to do the same. Why? I don't know, other than it is irresistible. To say that I am possesed by the imp is like declaring that water is wet; it is accurate without being sufficiently comprehensive to the subject at hand. I just must be different.

But opportunities to blow my own cover constantly abound, and it is in my very physical nature to take said opportunity and do something memorably unusual with it. I wouldn't say that it's necessarily cost me jobs in the past, but I am certain in my inner depths that it has had such a contributory effect.

To say that I struggle with the two conflicting forces is inaccurate because it assumes that I spend a lot of time dealing with awkward situations in advance of their occurrence, which is not true. I do consider, worry over and deeply regret these instances, but only ever in the wake of their occurrence. I never consider consequences "at the moment," but every break from the herd that draws attention to itself leaves a little psychological scar; many positive events in my life are lost to the dustbin of mental history, but for some reason the wincing, second-glance inducing departures from the norm stick with me for years, maybe forever. The time I sang Karaoke so forcefully badly in the shitbag bar that the DJ all but shut down the vocal channel in his equipment, as my wife and her friend looked on, torn between feigning support for the dare they ushered me into and running away in proper shame. The time early in my technical career when I told an ex-Navy friend of my Dad's in front of several colleagues that the automated web design software DreamWeaver was "for queers." Nearly immediately and for years afterwards I wonder to myself: "Christ, what was I thinking?" I am still uncomfortable thus reminiscing even today, and yet I can't help but chuckle to myself in recalling them to write them down here. Something within me is truly off-center (I firmly resist to say "wrong"), and yet it is within me.

Looking up at the family tree, I see that it is very likely genetic, on my father's side, where there are fruits and nuts hanging clearly from every branch in view. Both my Uncle and Dad buck the system in their own odd (and admirable) way. My Dad, for example, takes great joy in the occasional opportunity to ambitiously fuck with any sort of door-to-door salesperson, be they commercial or spiritual in nature. Woe be unto any vacuum cleaner salesman, Jehovah's Witness or pest control entrepreneur who commits the tragic sin of darkening his doorstep. The man is fairly known for it; maybe it's his years in law enforcement that helped him to craft the proper balance of malevolence vs.liability, to loosen the bowel of a weary ware-hawker with wordless threat of impending harm without being actionably illegal, I don't know. All I know is that anyone within earshot of the exchange is immediately filled with sympathy for the pathetic zombie that trudges defeatedly away from the mean old jutting-jawed man in the doorway. Kids in Africa should get this kind of soul-eyed compassion.

Why does he do it? Why am I the way I am? Even writing this blog; who puts down this viscerally private shit, too personal for friends to read but just fine for people I don't know? These are philosophical questions, asked of a natural event, akin to asking why tornados favor trailer parks. There are no scientific answers, only conjecture, which at best might soothe a trouble soul, yearning for reason in an unreasonable world.

I'm told the Chinese have a proverb, roughly stated thus: "The nail that sticks out gets hammered back in." I sense the harm that "being myself" does in my everyday life. I am certain that I would be higher in the vocational food chain if I were more like the slick-talking, fast-walking schmoozers I've run up against over and over in the world.

But an indignant part of me rails against that course of thinking as soon as I've thunk it, stomping and griping and rebelling against the thought of living someone else's preferred view of my conduct, no matter how convenient and streamlined my life might be (which must be a powerful innate force, as otherwise lazy as I know myself to be).

I do struggle with such questions, even if only after the fact. It is a troubling question to me, whether to toe the line and live everyone's expectation, or to follow my gut, and throw curveballs when presented with the chance. Both sides of the argument have their temptations, but I know one thing:

As my son grows older, I will teach him juggling, and some French.

I can't miss you unless you leave

My wife took my son for a few days' trip to her sister's in SoCal. This morning's last-minute preparations were longer and more intense than I expected, and by the time she left I was profoundly grateful that she had done so. Personalities clashed and pressure pressed as the fear of leaving behind something crucial caused the quiet friction that is as close to discord as we ever get. We do pretty well even under the worst of circumstances, for which I'm both proud and grateful.

Rockin' the boat

Waters are choppy here in the U.S.S. Jobsite. Makes Daddy jumpy. Will attempt to ride it out.

I feel good again

I have felt such a funk for most of the week. Just a wet blanket of negativity and frustration draped heavily across my shoulders, and I couldn't shake it. Couldn't find the positive.

Last night I arrived home from work, and my wife spent the next 13 hours making life right again. If ever a soul was given first aid, it was then. A simple meal, simple pleasures like our calm tradition of catching a regular television show together.

I had a night of the best, deepest, sleep I've had in recent memory. I spent the extra half-hour afforded to me by a late-starting work schedule enjoying French toast and coffee, and watching a talk show with very mellow discussion of theater, acting and poetry with the great John Lithgow.

The simplicity of these acts minimized not a whit the balm effect on my psychic second-degree burns. This morning I once again possess a calm feeling of wellness, so desperately missed of late that I could now weep upon its return. Such rejuvenation. Such bliss.

I thanked my angel for being the good thing in my life.

Splat

What a dork I am. It's nearly unforgivable.

My son wanted to see Momma before she left this morning; my son, wearing only socks yet this day; Momma, who was four seconds from backing her truck out of the driveway to start her workday. I quickly gathered him up in my arms to protect his feet from getting dirty. His feet were two of the few things not about to get screwed.

Moving briskly out the garage door, my feet tangled up in a rug and both son and World's Biggest Dork went flying, both landing on opposing elbows. I tried my best to hold my "Brian side" off the ground, with pitifully meager results. Once he stopped bawling and I calmed down enough not to punch myself in the face for such foolishness, he was able to wiggle his fingers, one good sign. I distracted him with talk of toys later, and got him to highfive me with the offended appendage, so went continued on to preschool instead of the emergency room.

What a lousy start to the day. I'll try to stay upright for its remainder, but obviously such promises are only marginally subject to my control.

It's no Secret

"The Secret" is based on a spiritual theory that espouses visualizing and asking the universe for what you want. I just can't get there, but this week was as good an argument for it as any.

I've been inwardly and fervently longing for a more organized and energized feel from my grassroots political organization, "The Calaveras County Ron Paul 2008 Meetup Group." I submitted several suggestions for improvement and change to the group's leader and the membership in general. Assent was quick and unanimous. The timing must have been ripe.

Also, I have been more and more interested in entry-level entertainment skills and issues. Comedy, theater and the like. Two days ago I got a call from a local do-gooder who is active in this area, and she solicited my interest in a project to be named later, including stand-up comedy and emcee opportunities. I leapt upon it, at least in theory, and I hope it turns into something I can sink my teeth into.

The future is a little more exciting. I'm looking forward to seeing how it turns out.

Sierra Rec

I have revisited my hobby website project, "Sierra Recreation." I am rediscovering the wisdom in doing an imperfect something over nothing at all.

I implemented a nice template, but it is not displaying entirely correctly, and its finer features are lost until the right tweaking is done. Needless to say, I don't know how to apply those tweaks, and it has frustrated me to the point of inaction.

Today, I added some menu items (on a menu I was able to tweak into displaying correctly). These little steps rebuild my confidence not only in myself but in the entire idea of trying at all. Adding the odd, incremental bit of content, and the thing will start to look worthwhile again.

Little steps get you there, or at least move you forward. Often, that is enough for now.

Bookkeeping

I had been trying to get into an online bookkeeping class, but I was too late and the class was too popular. I scrambled onto the waiting list, but didn't make the final cut.

Honestly, I'm not that motivated about it. Numbers have always been a difficult subject for me, and flatly disinteresting. However, I acknowledge that it's a limitation that closes off very real potential for me as well. So, I decided to look into alternative forms of education.

I robbed the subjects listed in the textbook I would have bought (none too cheaply, I might add), and Googled some of them. A hop, click and a jump led me to Intuit's recently-released "QuickBooks Simple Start Free Edition 2009 ." I compared it to a favorably-reviewed free offering from Microsoft, and chose the Intuit version for the following reasons:

• I have experience with and access to Intuit's legit Quickbooks
• The MS version is not reallyreally free, as you apparently must have MS Office installed before it will work

Both options are huge (320+ Megs) to download, but I've got mine up & running. I hope to teach myself something new, and if nothing else organize my own meager money matters as well.

Make mine a double

Jeezis, what a shit morning today. My son was all butt-hurt about something, and life got hectic for just a few minutes there. I ended up skipping breakfast, and the drive to work was a long one.

I decided I needed some comfort food for breakfast. I stopped by Angels Camp Burger King and ordered a double sausage-and-cheese Croissanwich. After this artery-clogging luxury, I felt much better.

Best four bucks I'll spend today, and it's second-best for the week, where first is that I bought new, $4 earbuds for my MP4 player. One earbud of my current pair failed and I had tolerated it, but I drew the line when my one remaining speakerbud started buzzing and crapping out. I found some cheap ones (different brand than the ones that just failed me) on eBay and free shipping sealed the deal.

I think everybody with the means should find an under-$10 web purchase and invest in a minor splurge of retail therapy as often as possible. Cheap books are a good option. Dr. Tom's prescription calls for at least two per month, or as needed.

Smell my finger

I did one useful thing yesterday, and that was to send my brother the Rosemary he was hassling me about. It grows in abundance at my house, and ever since I told him I would, I've done nothing to actually package and mail it. I lag.

The stuff smells great, and I took my fragrant package to the Post Office, where the clerk jammed the package in her face and inhaled deeply. That makes me laugh.