It is a grumbling day. Ideas for various bits are queued up in my blogreal cortex, but most of them are hideous half-finished masses of stitched-together comedy, moaning and gasping and staggering around like extras from a Romero film. There are some political bits chained up in a small box beneath my occipital lobe, but they're locked away for reason. And flapping around between my unmyelinated axons and the inside of the top of my skull are the Wacky Notions--those nutty crazy random bits that always squeeze themselves onto the page when I'm not looking. It's a madhouse, I tell you! And with only me to manage it, it's only a matter of time before something truly odd happens.
Or not. After all, it's much easier to tell you about all the Amazing Content that you would be reading if only I had the motivation to write it for you. But no! Instead I give you this tremulous warbling, like a shy toddler speared by a spotlight on stage and singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Bat whilst being pelted with half-chewed gummi bears. Got it? Just like that.
Pea's recovery continues apace, somewhat complicated by the fact that no one's ever cut her open and mucked about with her insides before, and she fears that if she laughs or coughs too hard she will burst open and ruin the couch, despite the good doctor's high quality plastic-surgery-style closure. So she's a little twitchy, but she's better today than yesterday, and certainly better than Monday afternoon after the surgery, when she was all full of hydromorphone. Mmmm... dilaudid.
On the other hand, I am wearing a fabulous outfit today, and it is highly doubtful that I will burst open and ruin it, so I've got that going for me. I made two choices in acquiring this fabulous outfit which I find confirmed, right now: John Erickson says what is true about pleated pants, which is why I hate them and wear plain front. I must say, though, that his notion of the pleated style flattering the big-bellied such as myself is peculiar... the pleats puff out in an unseemly fashion, no matter where the waistband rests. And Manolo, who pointed me to Mr. Erickson, mentions a pair of monk-strap style Mephistos, which are very nearly like the Mezlan monk-strap shoes I bought yesterday, only not quite as nice. The other choices need no confirmation: wool/silk blend jacket in "Butter" by Oscar de la Renta (which I got for an amazing price at Filene's last week... so amazing I bought another in navy), woven Italian tie in gold with blue accents, a deeply royal blue shirt, and pale stone khakis. The chance to engage in this sartorial fiesta was the only reason I actually got up to come into the office today, rather than working at home.
Thus by Intraweb coincidence is my fashion sense (partially) validated. I choose to ignore other such coincidences, of course, as one must in order to maintain a certain amount of sanity. Otherwise, the fact that I had a very peculiar dream involving Martin Sheen as President Bartlett, an ancient temple decorated in satin like a bordello, and a vividly-rendered hermaphroditic Satan on the same day that Astonished Head happened to receive 666 visits might be cause for alarm.
And now: to lunch!
Do not let your fascination overwhelm you. I assure you that my life is only perhaps half as thrilling as it sounds.
