Ahoy, ahoy, dear reader! Sorry to be out of touch. The muse hasn’t been too friendly, these past few days.
Which isn’t the same as lounging around in a catatonic funk, even though I could use a little of that. No, I’ve just been kinda busy and unable to find any subject about which I can dash off a few lines.
I mean, sure, there’s this picture of one of the terrorist arrests in London.
My first impression on looking at that was, “Either the Bobbies have some pretty lax dress codes, or people who look like average Londoners are capable of suddenly donning SWAT gear and kicking ass.”
But I haven’t had too much to write about those attacks or the ones that immediately preceded them.
The more astute among you have noticed that I’ve reorganized the blogroll on the left side of this page, breaking it out into utterly arbitrary categories. I’ve added a bunch of sites to the roll, too, so forensic psychiatrists can spend more time trying to assemble an identikit picture of my mind or something.
In that same vein, I took a mental health day yesterday and reinforced the principle that I seem to do more stuff on those days than I do when I’m in the office. Yesterday involved finishing two books (Perfume and The Underminer) and starting another (Madame Bovary), putting up some shelves in my office, taking care of some paperwork for closing out my business, cleaning some floors, doing laundry, finishing another Mad Mix, and being Uncle Gil one last time before my nieces head back home to St. Louis. At least I was off-duty enough to refrain from checking my work e-mail.
I had a good idea (I think) for a longer post, which would make it an essay, I suppose. I’ll have to work on that for a bit this week, and see if it amounts to anything. I’d tell you what it’s about, but that would ruin the surprise.