Evidence the First: I read the following yesterday --

"I was witness to events of a less peaceful character. One day when I went out to my wood-pile, or rather my pile of stumps, I observed two large ants, the one red, the other much larger, nearly half an inch long, and black, fiercely contending with one another. Having once got hold they never let go, but struggled and wrestled and rolled on the chips incessantly ..." (Thoreau, Walden, Chapter 12 - Brute Neighbors)

Evidence the Second: For the bug-phobic amongst you, this links to a blog entry about some Japanese game show wherein a beetle fights a scorpion To The Death.

Conclusion: If Henry Thoreau were alive today, he would be a blogger, and if his book is any indication, he would be Insufferable With A Capital 'I'.

Also: I like to capitalize things for Emphasis.

Also, also: I initially wrote "Insufferable With A Capital 'A'".

A little less than a month ago, and shortly after the birth of her first child, my sister called me and asked me to be her daughter's godfather, a prospect about which I was ( more than a little ambivalent. )

This was originally supposed to be a post summarizing my thoughts on my recent binge of self-assigned reading material (hopefully presented in a somewhat less offensive manner that my other posts). But quite frankly, I think most people would probably find it boring and shockingly ill-informed, so I'll skip it. The quick version is that I'm not going to read Dianetics, which means that I am donedonedonedone, so I can read books I actually enjoy for a while. My other thoughts, mostly pertaining to my own confusion, disillusionment, and biases, will be lost to posterity, barring any unexpected developments.

This, however, leaves me with the following dilemma. I'm at work. My boss and my staff have all taken the day off, leaving me lonelily longing for something to do. And while I should use this time to catch up on a lot of the work I've been ignoring ... I don't want to. So I'm bored.

Therefore, a request! I plead! I beg! I steal one of those memes that frighten me so! Tell me what to write about. Everything is on the table; nothing is off-limits. I need a topic. I need inspiration. Heck, in the interest of finding a third thing to need, I just googled the phrase "I need" and learned that Mr. Google thinks I need therapy. I shan't disagree.

Elsewise, if you prefer, shame me for goofing off at work, and I'll start calling old women and asking them about their cardiovascular problems.

P.S.: My request stands even though I am leaving work. I really have no idea what I should write about.

So I'm almost finished reading Assassination Vacation by Sarah Vowell. I've liked the book for the most part; it was an enjoyable, fun read, and I wish it took me longer to finish it, if only to keep me from returning to The Book of Mormon. I don't mean to suggest, however, that I found it to be an exceptional book. It's merely good, without being great.

Anyway, I was reading about McKinley's assassination, and Ms. Vowell was describing the mountain that Teddy Roosevelt was climbing when he got the message that McKinley was about to kick the bucket. I had a realization.

"I have already reneged on the Mount Marcy climb. I looked it up and it's a twenty-mile round-trip hike." (Assassination Vacation, Page 225)

I remember reading those two sentences. I was on the bus, with groceries next to me. I read those sentences, and then, like a neon sign lighting up in one of the dusty parts of my brain, something became suddenly, startlingly clear.

I want to have sex with Sarah Vowell.

Really? Sarah Vowell? Really?

It's not a lust thing, or even really a sex thing. At least, I don't think it is. I just think it would be ... interesting. Having sex with Sarah Vowell would be interesting. Like cooking dinner with Albert Einstein or playing video games with Elizabeth I. I really don't know why.

Trust me. I'm even more perplexed by this than any of you. You, at least, don't have the visuals. You might have a visual image of your own, of course, but does yours involve Ira Glass providing narration and snappy musical cues?

Well, I guess it does now.

There's a darker possibility, of course. It's far from inconceivable that this is but one more symptom of whichever of my many, many defects is responsible for my as-yet-unrequited lust for Louise Woodward, or my regret that I'll never get to sex up Eudora Welty. I've never thought of myself as a person with a sexual fetish, but obviously, there's something going on there.

At last, going to the gym has finally paid off. Not five minutes ago, returning home with my lunch, I had to break up a fight. A full-on, mano-a-mano, fight to the finish! A brawl! A Boston-style beatdown!

Between two pimply-faced high school kids.

Outside a flower store.

Strangely, I'm not feeling terribly macho at the moment. I mean, c'mon, you little bastards. Couldn't you at least hang out in a parking lot or something?

"Wo unto the uncircumcised of heart, for a knowledge of their iniquities shall smite them at the last day." (2 Nephi 9:33)

Wait ... what? I'm supposed to get my heart circumcised? How does that even work?

I'm also getting a kick out of "Wo unto the murderer who deliberately killeth, for he shall die." (2 Nephi 9:35) As opposed to the murderers who accidentally kill, for they shall live forever. Also, there's wo in store for those of you who "commit whoredoms," which, quite frankly, sounds like a lot of fun. Finally, should any of you fine people "die in [your] sins," you will "return to God, and behold his face, and remain in [your] sins," which, if you ask me, doesn't say very much in favor of seeing God's face. The dude must be powerfully ugly, am I right? Also, there's some wo in your future as well.

I really didn't think that this was the kind of thing that I actually needed to point out, but generally, when I am making the sex, I am not simultaneously making the asparagus.

I would explain, but it would really not make anything any clearer.

For those of you hoping that my hiatus from reading religious texts was only temporary, I have good news (but not, alas, The Good News). For those of you rejoicing that you might never again have to endure my ill-informed theological screeds, ( prepare to be disappointed. )

Dear Yesterday,

I would like to take this opportunity to extend a formal invitation for you to go take a long walk off a short pier.

Please RSVP!

Sincerely,
Joe

On my way to fetch my lunch from the office refrigerator, I noticed an unusual pamphlet on a co-worker's desk. The cover featured a rather crude drawing of a man with a knife next to the words "Gomez is coming." I passed on by, not wanting to be seen rooting through a co-worker's desk in search of Answers, but my curiosity was ( aroused. )

Anybody want to go to the ballet on Sunday, February 17 at 7 PM? The production is Romeo and Juliet, and I think I can get up to 8 tickets for $24 - $57.

From my office, I have a great view of the airspace above the Charles River. Not the river itself, mind you -- just everything above it. A year ago today, that airspace was crowded with helicopters. At first, I simply assumed there was some big event going on downtown, but after fruitlessly trying to guess what that event could be, I logged onto the internet and learned that some maniac had rigged all our beautiful bridges to explode. Naturally, I guessed that it was al Qaeda or Tommy Lee Jones, but eventually the world learned that the threat we faced was so much greater. It was the moon. The freakin' moon, people!

A year later, there's no memorial. No moment of silence. George Bush isn't standing on a heap of rubble (moon rubble!) promising that "The people from the moon who knocked these bridges down will hear all of us soon!" Which would be a lie, because there's no sound on the moon.

2008 is quickly turning into the year in which I expose my shame on the internet, so I feel obligated to point out that I'm still really ashamed about this whole incident. I was so proud of my adopted little state when we legalized gay marriage, but this ... I know it's not really a big deal, but anytime I go home, someone in my family will ask me if I still like living in Boston, as though it's unnatural that I have no urge to return to the warm, welcoming bosom of the great Midwest. For the last year, my defense of the Hub of the Universe has rung a little hollow.

I hate the moon.

The other night, after coming home late and finding myself tired, but not yet ready to go to sleep, I flipped on the television to discover that Children of Men was on. I've already watched it a half-dozen times or so, but it's one of the most gorgeous and moving films I've ever seen, so I happily crash-landed on the couch. If you haven't already experienced it, you should go out immediately and do so, especially because I'm about to ( ruin the ending. )

I know that I tend to rehash the same topics when I write in this space, and for that I can only apologize. I know you're probably sick of reading about the Cubs and chai or the Bible and Bionic Woman, but I have to write about what I know, and those are the only four things I ever think about.

Ever.

So, without additional comment, I present three anecdotes from the past three days, each somewhat relevant to a few of my previous journaling obsessions. If you'd like to play a fun game, count up all the hidden references I make to things I've written in earlier entries. Then, go play an actual fun game.

( I was not reading the Bible on Thursday night. )

( Everyone's a critic. )

( They're not lying when they say that dog-walking increases your sex appeal. )

I believe that covers all my usual topics, although now that I think of it, some of what I have described might not have actually happened.

No, I take that back. All of the above is completely factual.

During my junior year of high school, I played the part of Conrad Birdie in the musical Bye Bye Birdie. This was the setting for an incident which was, until recently, ( the single most humiliating moment of my life. )

I'm going to have to ask you all to excuse any typos you might find in this entry. It's just that it's a little hard to see the computer screen, what with the river of tears flowing down my face at the moment.

You see, they've stopped serving egg nog chai. What more can I say? Clearly, this is the ( saddest day of the year. )

For the record, I'm pretty sure that over the course of the past week or so, I've managed to make each and every possible mistake. In any kind of situation, I'm managed to stumble upon the exact wrong course, with one possible exception. When the Homeland Security folks asked me why I'd chosen today, of all days, to go through the metal detector at the airport wearing a solid steel strap-on painted to look like the Pakistani flag, I managed not to say, "Because it's the bomb, dudes!"

Aside from that, however, I've been an absolute wreck. The holidays can not possibly end soon enough.

If you were to ask me where I'm from, I'd say "Chicago." And then I'd go on to say something about the Cubs or a Chicago-style hot dog, or about the fact that the city changed the direction of the Chicago River, or that it's responsible for the tune to the song about that place in France (the one where the naked ladies dance), or about how Chicago's so fat, that when it sits around the house, it sits around the house. At that point, I might go on to say some complimentary things about your maternal relatives (and their delicious bundt cakes), but I digress. The reason I bring this up is because it's a ( lie. )

Also, I'm pretty sure that I've never actually eaten a bundt cake.

I was up earlier than usual, so as to begin filling my roommate's crock pot with delicious meat and broth and vegetables and spices for tonight's repast of (hopefully) delicious stew. I was also awake much later than usual last night, diligently preparing my review of the most recent episode of Bionic Woman. If'n you're interested, the short version is that watching this show is kind of like putting an ice pick through one's delicious brain meats, and the long version will soon be available on the internets (hereabouts-ish?), wherein you will see me call out both Calista Flockhart and the Head Honchos at Big Cheese Industries, but mostly Calista Flockhart, and actually, I only really make a very passing reference to the show Ally McBeal. But I could have taken them all to task, and they know it.

I bring this up, because upon arriving at work, ( I realized I was sleepy ... )

It's nice to know that in the second-to-last inning of what's likely to be the final game of the World Series between the Red Sox and the Rockies, that the Fox Sports broadcasters can find an excuse to spend an inning talking about the Yankees.

Hey folks, this will be the last time I post about this, unless I happen to write something so fantastic that it dare not be contained, but this is my most recent review of Bionic Woman, the alpha and omega of modern television. Verily, it bestrides this narrow world like a bionic colossus, and all other petty shows must walk under her huge and shapely legs and peep about to find themselves dishonorable graves. Also, she's doing one-armed pull-ups and wearing a sports bra. My review of the new Friday Night Lights is here. Like the Cubs, I'm starting to think this show won't be good again for a hundred years. But the first season is great!

In the future, if you'd care to continue reading whatever they let me post, the BW recaps should go up Thursday afternoon and the FNL recaps should go up Monday afternoon. Or you could do like I do and refresh the site every thirty seconds. I cannot wait! I have to know what I'll write next! It could be anything!

It's not that I hate being sick. Don't get me wrong; it's not on my top ten list of fun things to do (world domination using radishes and porcupine boxing promotion make the list; being sick and unicorn humiliation do not). My real problem, however, is taking a sick day. I hate taking sick days. You can call it a mental health day or playing hooky or whatever you like, but I hate it. Maybe it's a guilt thing, or maybe it's just that I hate wasting time when I could be meeting the deadlines I've set for myself. Regardless, I'm home sick for the second day in a row, and I am cranky.

On the plus side, I will definitely be working tonight, because I sort of have a second job. I'm reviewing television shows for UGO.com. Now let's not get too carried away about this; I know a lot of people are going to want to talk about how this is the greatest thing to happen to American letters since Benjamin Franklin wrote the Bible. While I appreciate the sentiment, I think we all have to admit that's kind of a crazy statement. Everyone knows Thomas Jefferson really wrote the Bible.

In all seriousness, I have to confess that I'm a little uncomfortable writing to a deadline. I'm sensitive about my writing by default, of course, but I know that my reviews would benefit with a couple rewritings. I just don't have the time for it. Alas. On the other hand, of course, I'm trying to grow award-winning heirloom tomatoes in the fertile soil provided by Bionic Woman, so maybe I should just be happy with what I've got.

If you're in the mood to learn all about what I think of Bionic Woman (and are not afraid of the spoilers), click here and here. To read instead about Friday Night Lights (again with the spoilers), just click here.

Kerry Wood's arm didn't explode! Yay!

Also, I just dropped some tacos! Yay!

I've started jogging again. I used to jog, until the pain became too much, and I had to stop. Recently, at least three of my friends have started jogging, so I thought it might be a good time to pick it up again. Sadly, I've put on a little weight since my college days, so the ( results have not been pretty. )

Seriously, I am so damaged right now. Also, someone just felt the need to tell me she's going to photocopy something.

Ever since I read the Bible, I've noticed a significant uptick in the amount of religiously-themed e-mail spam I've been receiving. I don't actually read them, but the subject lines promise baptism, salvation, and Jesus. I think I'd prefer reading about how I can make my junk bigger.

More importantly, I just don't know how to feel about this. It would be kind of weird if I laughed and threw up at the same time, wouldn't it?

On the mornings when I've decided I've earned a trip to the local Kara Thrace coffee shop, I pass by a building named "The Kidney Center." (And in case you were curious, if you go in and order "Two kidneys to go," neither the receptionist nor the security guard who escorts you out of the building will ask you if you "want to super-size that." Y'know, just in case you were thinking of doing that.) Today, I noticed a sign taped to the front door: "There are no public restrooms."

On the one hand, this sign is neither cryptic, nor even remotely interesting. Millions of businesses have similar signs directing our baby-bladdered brethren to the bathrooms of a more-accommodating building. But I can't be the only person struck by the wording of that sign. Why not "We have no public restrooms" or "Restrooms for customers only" or even just "Go pee in the alley, jerk"? I think The Kidney Center is saying something a little more important, since, after all, they are in the peeing business. Maybe they ( Know Something. )

I would offer to go in and ask for clarification, but I don't think they have much of a sense of humor there ... or a super-sized value menu.

Just when I had it stuck in my head that this was going to be the Year of Reading VERY Boring Books, Madeleine L'Engle has to go and die, reminding me that I've actually managed to squeeze in some really wonderful books as well. Admittedly, I'm a little overwhelmed from the Bible, the Qur'an, and my current self-appointed task of reading the entirety of the textbook for my epidemiology class, but I think I've more than made up for that with some of this year's other reading selections.

So, although it's not terribly interesting for anyone who is not me, here, (to the best of my woefully inadequate memory) is ( a list of some of the enjoyable books that I have read this year: )

Seriously, Grace. It's your fucking tail. It's attached to your ass. It's been there since the day you were born, and it will be there until the day you die.

You do not need to tear the shit out of my bedspread trying to attack it. Please. It's not going anywhere.