I have only a few words in me today. Work has been work-like today. My creative energy has been spent by a few clever as-yet-unresponded-to e-mails. And I ready myself to go to a puppy-warming party, at which my sister-in-law and her boyfriend will lead a cheery welcome to their new dog Noble.
Things are going as planned with the move. A truck has been rented. New furniture has been browsed upon. Somewhere in there a Bose stereo system is destined to belong. That's if my union (I have a union!) can get that across-the-board 2% raise approved (thanks, California taxpayers).
I'm not happy with the Detroit-San Antonio NBA finals. But it is the NBA. And these are the finals. So I will watch. Spurs in 7. And let's hope the Timberwolves select Salim Stuodamire from Arizona in the draft.
I promise that I will write more later this week. Possible topics: hoodrats, Prairie Home Companion, the genre of memoir, and a defense of Tom Cruise (no I'm not a Scientologist).
1 comment:
So, Mister, what should we do about all this? Don't you know that it is an artist's destiny to be ignored, ignored, ignored, and then praised to the skies when dead? And what's your beef with Minneapolis? Huh? What's so great about LA besides the Playboy Mansion? Speaking of which, have you seen the special on aforementioned mansion on A & E? Does not responding to emails because I'm deep in the trough of a depression make me a bad friend? The beautiful ones always smash the picture. Always. Every time.
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