January 28, 2011: There are many things competing for attention in my brain this frosty evening -- favorite Lulu songs, Freecell, Lord Voldemort, Chinese food, images of nude women ... -- and yet, at the end of the day, isn't it always about the nude women!?
Actually, I'm being glib, because that's what I do. You see, I'm trying to make you laugh, and that's why I'm so unsuccessful at it. I try too hard. But then why shouldn't I? You aren't trying at all.
You see, my point is a subtle one, meaning I'm not even sure what it is. I mean, I know there's a point in there somewhere, but couldn't it just as well be a line, or a ray, or perhaps some three-dimensional geometric shape too complicated to name.
And speaking of names, when was the last time you wrote your mother? When was the last time you wrote my mother, or even phoned her. (And she's dead, by the way, so I hope you reversed the charges.)
And speaking of my mother, what of Lord Voldemort? For one thing, he doesn't have a nose, which is part of why it's so hard for him to get dates. Of course, having a nose, I'm not sure why it's so hard for me to get dates, except I'm married, and a lot of women consider that a red flag about committment.
And speaking of committment, am I ever going to figure out how to spell it correctly? No, probably not. If I were serious about committment, I'd look it up, but I'm too lazy. Which is why if the Dark Lord ever comes back, don't count on me to be much help.
And speaking of help, it's amazing how nice some people are about the excessive snowfalls, while others are veritable monsters. My neighbor across the street is a saint, and actually helped clear my driveway last week. Much to my consternation, he failed to clear it yesterday, so I knocked over his mailbox. But what was worse, some guy came along with a power blower and asked for $30 to clear my driveway, and after I'd already shoveled most of it. I told him to shove off, and thought of that poigniant (I know I misspelled it!) line from H.G. Wells, wherein he references a gross mingling of panic-filled disaster and profit. (I intended to point this out to the gentleman, but by then he was four houses down telling my neighbor what a cheapskate I was.)