On to Arizona

18-0! Fuck off, Shula!

Highlight of the day thus far

NY Daily News (hey, shut up! I wouldn't wrap fish with this rag were it not for Lupica.) today brings us the sad news that Sam, the jovial butcher from Brady Bunch, has moved on to the great meat counter in the sky. First comment on the story (just in case it gets deleted):

Dave Jan 18, 2008 11:21:26 PM Report Offensive Post
Poor guy. He never DID get to slip Alice the ol' tube steak....

I always thought Alice was a butch and just didn't know how to tell Sam, but whatever. So long, Sam. May your blade be sharp and your aim true.

Good

It's been a good day if only because I finally got The Complete Cartoons of The New Yorker to load correctly on my laptop. Where would I be without Peter Arno, Willian Steig and Charles Adams? Shudder to think. The New York Football Giants just knocked Tampa Bay out of the playoffs, and that's good because I despise Florida. We've got a Manaschewitz Bean Soup simmering on the stove, and that's good because I love winter soup, and this one will be great with the leftover shredded chicken we're going to add. I've got almost six hours left until bed time, and that's good because I have client work to do. I have client work to do, and that's good because I get paid by my client. I like money, quite a bit. I've heard good things about it and would like to discover more. There is absolutely nothing else to report, but it's good to do so. Sometimes that's good enough.

Updating on the Spot!

With love for the Janets.

These are among my favorite hours of the week. House cleaning and laundry are accomplished, we have supped on some righteous six-hour-simmer chili, and I've got plenty of cold Miller and frosted glasses and playoff football. The Times awaits, and so does John Cheever. But no timetable, no rush.

And no alarm tomorrow.

The snow is melting somewhat, and with the exception of the resultant crashing icicles, I'm in favor. This is the time of year that stalls. Come March, time disinigrates until high summer. But from now until then time crawls, slugged down by dreams of escapism and realities of work and snowbanks. I've mostly kicked depression, but these days can get me.

Not today, though. Not when the work of the weekend is done and I can fuck off with impunity the rest of the way. This is what I live for, these moments of repose. It's my time.