A Great American

I am not a sophisticated person, so I do not know how to add a You Tube screen to my blog. If you're interested in seeing the segments I'm talking about, please click here.

I like Rosie O'Donnell. I think she's opinionated and perhaps could measure her words a little better, but I like her. I also think the dynamic tension with her and her castmates on The View is intentional and makes for good television -- certainly some of the most interesting television in day time.

I don't know what to make of her conspiracy theories of 9/11. They are plausible, as most conspiracy theories are. However I applaud Rosie for speaking her mind without her views being run through a public opinion poll.

The companion piece is from Bill O'Reilly's show where he has three Fox news analysts whimpering because Elizabeth Hasselback isn't a match for Rosie or Joy Behar. The irony of the fact that they had absolutely no liberal commentator to discuss Rosie's right to uncensored free speech completely eludes them.

Make no mistake: O'Reilly wasn't talking about the validity of Rosie's claim. He was outraged that she has a platform to air a view that he disagrees with, and so he's calling for her dismissal.

Note to Mr. O'Reilly: America is a free country, one of the pillars of which is free commerce. If The View doesn't bring in its numbers, Rosie will lose her platform. That is how our system works.

I'm an Addict...

Quickly:

1) The stories are progressing nicely. One nearly finished, a second coming together. For the third I decided that I would pull something from my archives and rework. Before reading any, I mentally made a selection and then sat down and read it. Written in 2003, "The Tragic End of Beulah Pear" is a surrealistic piece that I was quite proud of when I finished it. It's complete crap, but worthy of being rewritten. What this piece makes clear though is that I've significantly improved as a writer -- good to know that $45,000 in education can do that -- but that some fundamental issues still remain. Again, crediting the education, the ability to identify these problems is invaluable.

2) Work is an ever-evolving nightmare. It's bonus week and no one but me seems to be happy. We lost 4.5 million dollars last year and the fact that the board of directors approved any bonuses is a minor miracle. But, because I work with a bunch of over-privileged, middle-class morons they are all lining up in front of my office to whine about "more." It's interesting to see that the least deserving are those doing the most whining.

3) I'm hating being in the chorus right now. It's taking up way more time than I want to give it. My little specialty number is more difficult than I want it to be. And I have to dance. I DON'T DANCE! And yet they asked me anyway.

4) This weekend I'm making my pilgrimmage to Home Depot to exchange the toilet seat. I asked for the same salesperson who did the order and I'm working with her on my kitchen stuff now. Ordering a new floor, stove, and refrigerator.

5) I've decided that my graduation treat to myself is going to be a laptop computer and a week-long trip to a little fishing resort in Minnesota. More about the resort later. During that week I'm going to polish my collection of short fiction and work on my third novel. A year from now I'm going to be a published author.

Dear Car Owner,

Here's a thought: if your car is so important to you that you have a car alarm installed, then you should park it where you can hear said car alarm. If your car alarm is going off for a solid three hours and you don't respond, that's pretty much an invitation, nay a plea, to steal it.

At the very least you're asking the neighbors to call the police and have it towed away.

Your Friend,

Hammy

Hiatus

I'll be taking a brief break to finish my short story submissions. I have one I need to complete and four that need polishing for submissions next week. Meeting my goal of generating three poems as well isn't looking so good, but hope springs eternal.

So, I'm going to have to manage my addiction to blogs until I get them completed and submitted. But fear not, devoted readers. If I can maintain my schedule I should be back by the weekend.

The Real Dirty Little Secret

At the moment I'm having to take my political examinations very slowly. Even reading writers I admire is beginning to make me a little itchy. You can follow my links by going through James Wolcott's blog, or you can go directly to this vlog from Pamela Geller. While I still think James Wolcott is a superb writer, his emotional style is beginning to chafe as much as the Geller piece. The absolute moral certainty and crushing disdain for opposition from both pieces is what identifies them as being cut from the same bolt of cloth for me. Woolcot, at least is intelligent and beautifully, ornately articulate. I've visited the Geller blog a couple times and I really struggle to understand the personal motives for trying to position oneself simultaneously as a political analyst and a bimbo party girl. To be over thirty and that drunk at 11:30? One can only imagine the next morning. Has no one learned anything from Ann Coulter?

I'm also a Bill Mahr fan. I record Reel Time and watch it every week. For the most part he tries to understand the opposing view and sometimes he's funny as hell. However, his mission seems to be to to boil any issue down to identifying the ultimate person of responsibility. Who is responsible for the war in Iraq? Who is responsible for global warming? Who is responsible for the death of Anna Nicole Smith? The answers, according to Bill Mahr are: George Bush, big oil companies, the media.

I have a better answer.

You are responsible. Yes, you! The person enjoying the brilliance of Ham Salad at this very moment. YOU.

Understand: I'm not taking myself off the hook either.

I didn't believe in the war on Iraq, but I only wrote one letter of protest and sent it to Barbara Boxer. (Barbara Boxer ROCKS!) I don't have a "Support the Troops" sticker on anything. I'm not even sure I buy the sentiment of supporting the troops of an all-volunteer militia who are fighting an unjust war. (The caveat is that I recognize that the military is mainly comprised of people who have very, very few economic options and whose final years of education is a product of the No Child Left Behind policies. I believe people "support the troops" so they don't feel so bad for not having done enough to prevent the troops being sent on a pointless suicide mission.) I have never attended an anti-war rally. Iraq is not even a major topic on my blog. I could and should do more. So can you. If nothing else, read about it. I promise, a week of casual reading about the war will motivate you to do something.

I drink Diet Coke from plastic bottles. A lot of Diet Coke. And I just throw the bottles away. Sometimes I don't even crush them and so they take up even more room in the plastic garbage bag. I don't recycle. In my defense I do not own a car of any kind and suffer through the Chicago public transit nightmare -- even though I now could afford a car and the necessary parking space that would accompany it. I sort of think that leaving a few thousand plastic bottles in various landfills for all eternity is a fair trade off, but I avoid watching Al Gore talk about global warming because I still feel a little guilty.

I've blogged about Anna Nicole Smith, and although I haven't been panting at the Nancy Grace analysis of her death, I will be interested in reading about the autopsy report and the DNA testing of her baby. It's a sickness I cannot seem to control.

You allowed George Bush frighten you into silence by not questioning his justification for the war. You, personally, did not do enough to object. You could and should live a greener life. And finally, we wouldn't know nearly as much about Anna Nicole if you weren't watching it on television, accepting candy-ass coverage as a substitute for hard news.

We are part of the richest, most powerful nation in the history of the world. Even in our decline we are still the supreme power on the planet. With that position of privilege comes a deep, deep moral responsibility to put down the Game Boy and Miller Lite and devote a couple of hours a week to one -- just one -- global issue of your choosing. If you truly know something about it, you will do something about it.

Our troops have ponied up their lives and limbs so that I can blather in cyber space and you can read it. That beautiful sense of honor is being grossly abused in this war.

Now, what are you going to do?

Homeland Security

My mother writes her own blog in which she waxes venomous about all things political. She has very strong views about Mr. Bush. She blogs anonymously and doesn't take it too seriously.

But the government might.

She is being read by two computers in the House Sergeant of Arms office as well as one House Rep's office. I'm not sure how she knows that, but she sent me a screen capture of a report she gets on the activity on her blog.

While I find her writing entertaining -- and apparently she's becoming quite big in China -- I'd be surprised if Washington would be interested, let alone amused.

Or, perhaps big brother truly is watching.

I Am Not in Control

I am a dolt. Even though I have extensive proof to the contrary, somehow I continually convince myself that a) the current situation, whatever it may be, will continue forever; and b) that I really am immortal.

That's why when something irrevocable happens I am so deeply shocked. A few weeks ago I fell pretty badly, ripping open my left arm and very seriously bruising my lower back. The fall came as a complete shock because there was nothing I could do to prevent it. One minute I was upright, and the next I was flat on my back gasping for air. In that brief second when I realized something that I had not intended -- something I could not control -- happened, I also thought of the possibility of paralysis. It was a fleeting thought, but I realized in that fraction of a section that it could happen to me. While there was pain involved in the fall, what was more upsetting was the realization of just how delicate my control of my world really is.

An old friend is going through the process of losing her father. As I write this he is most likely in hospice care. At Christmas when I saw my mother for the first time in five years I realized that my feeling of perpetual youth is just an illusion. My mother, who has been twenty-five in my head for as long as I've known her suddenly is a senior citizen. While she's always feigned frailty for attention, now the fragility is reality and being confronted with that reality was/is very frightening. When I received news that my friend was losing her father, I of course was sympathetic, but I experienced that fear again because I know that some day soon I'm going to have to deal with my mother's death, my cat's death, throwing away my old bathroom sink.

Even the most mundane irrevocable act makes me uncomfortable; that's why I have nearly eighty gray sweaters. Three quarters of them don't fit and never will again, but I can't bring myself to give them away. If they were a gift from someone, probably now long since forgotten, it still feels wrong. I still have a sweater that my mother gave me for my twelfth birthday. It was a gift and I cannot get rid of it.

But more important, by holding on to these things I am able to convince myself that nothing is changing and that I'm safe.

Yet, my friend's e-mail, my fall, my cat's health, and my mother's advancing age are telling me that things are changing with or without my approval and participation. And by extension my safety is called into question.

Christ, I think too much.

Heather Havrilesky Makes the World Make Sense

I have very little vanity, which is not to say that I have no ego. What I lack in knowledge of hair gel I make up for with knowledge of my own brilliance.

It's a gift.

That said, my brilliance has not expanded to the point of understanding drinking holidays. In my world, I understand a cocktail or two to help celebrate a holiday. I do not understand a day set aside in which revellers consume as much of the least expensive alcohol possible to the point of creating a public display. That's not to say I have never over consumed alcoholic beverages. A few years ago I was in a club in Minneapolis and did not realize I was being over served until it was way too late. Alcohol's effect seems to be immediate and delayed with me. I feel the first sip and then nothing until I'm a slurring mess. However, I had not really discovered this when I was in Minneapolis. At some point in the evening the DJ hit the strobe light and that was all I needed to detonate. I spewed down the backs of at least half dozen poor patrons, then turned around and coated a wall. I made at least one more stop in the middle of the dance floor on my way out of the club. It was not pretty.

However, in my defense, this was accidental and only happened once. Now I limit myself to two cocktails in public, and may allow a third if I'm in a private home. But honestly, I could go the rest of my life without ever touching alcohol and not miss it.

It's a gift.

But, to dedicate a full day to drinking with the expressed purpose of virtually obliterating an entire day or two from memory makes no sense to me.

Yesterday, not realizing that it was St. Patrick's Day in Chicago. On a weekend. I went out to get a haircut, manicure, and to meet my friend Cathy for a movie. The haircut, by the way is a disaster, but the visit with Cathy and the movie (Namesake) more than made up for it. On the way home I passed the new neighborhood "Irish" pub, which was blaring Donna Summer for the entertainment of everyone within a three-block radius. Outside there was a young couple engaging in some sort of dramatic mating ritual that involved her screaming and him slamming her up against the wall. I think I'd seen a similar scene on Real World or some such hooey. I stood and watched, fumbling for my cell phone to call 911. There were three other people doing exactly the same thing. Suddenly the show just stopped and the couple turned and walked/stumbled hand in hand back into the bar. Now understand that this couple appeared to be an affluent, clean-cut, yuppie couple, past the age of high school. For their sakes I can only pray they don't remember last night or they should die of embarrassment. Although I'm sure she's going to wonder how she got so bruised.

As I walked home I suddenly began to feel very old. Is that what fun is supposed to look like? I've always been a little socially awkward, but is that successful social intercourse? Am I the only person left on the planet capable of maintaining even the most casual relationship without resorting to chemical enhancement? If I got wasted on a regular basis could I sustain a long-term committed relationship?

Then, this morning I got up and read Heather Havrilesky. Thank God for Heather. At least I no longer feel like a lone voice howling into the abyss.

Now I have to go into the bathroom -- the one without a sink yet -- and see what I can do to salvage this haircut.

Literary Broccoli

As frequently happens in my life, I avoid something because I know deep in my soul I will hate it. That happened with Judging Amy. A recently divorced woman with a small girl moves in with her mother: hilarity and drama ensue. For the first year I was working nights, when a morning rerun of Judging Amy came on TV I could not change the channel fast enough. Girls. Ick.

Then one morning I accidentally did not change the channel fast enough and caught a scene with Tyne Daly -- an actress I had always avoided because I just knew I'd hate her -- and she was good. I can't remember the scene, but I do remember thinking, "Everyone gets something right once in a while." I sat and finished the episode. Not bad. Another came on, and by the end of that episode I was hooked. TNT shows two episodes a day and in about three months you can see the entire series. While Amy Brenneman is a competent actress, and the rest of the cast showed flashes of genuine intelligence and talent, the reason to watch the series is Tyne Daly. The woman can convey a spectrum of emotions in a two-second reaction shot that will send shivers down your spine. Although I have no plans to return to acting, I have studied her performance to see if I could break her formula. Like Lisa Kudrow, it's all about unexpected rhythms. Anyway, if you've not seen the show, it is your duty as a thinking American human to set your TiVo and record each episode. My favorite episode and moment of the entire series comes at the end of the one that guest stars Rosie O'Donnell. I won't spoil it for you because Tyne Daly's final scene in that episode is a revleation.

Last fall the selection of classes offered in my writing program was pretty grim and I ended up taking a class with a professor who had a reputation. Based on that reputation, I just knew I'd hate him. What's more, the class was the history of the personal essay. Could there possibly be a more boring topic? I prayed the class would not detract from my grade point too severely. Of course, this class turned out to be one of my favorite and the professor was truly the best I had in the program.

And the result is a new-found love for the personal essay, an allegedly dying artform. I believe the blogosphere belies that claim and I seem to be in an endless search for entertaining/informative/fortifying blogs. The fruit of my search has turned up a personal essay that I think beautifully captures the form. "I Blame Dennis Hopper" by Illeana Douglas is one of the most entertaining things I've read in a long time, and it fits in nicely with recent themes of this blog. Illeana, there is much for me to learn from you.

Wicked Grateful

Years ago I made the decision to give up the adolescent dream of fame and fortune and settle for yuppie comfort. Of course that comfort isn't as easily as sustained as it appears, but I can tell you for a fact that a steady pay check and health insurance beat fruitlessly auditioning four times a week and a steady diet of rejection. And I struggle to balance the undeniable ease of my life with the inevitable petty frustrations that accompany a comfortable middle-class existence. In my darker moments, when I'm feeling unappreciated or inconvenienced, I forget to be grateful.

Today I was supposed to have installed a new sink and toilet. The plumber had been here six weeks ago and I had specifically asked what would be needed for the project and if there were any special considerations I needed to be aware of. There weren't, so off I went to Home Depot and spent more money at one time than I am comfortable with. The supplies were delivered weeks ago.

The first problem was the realization that the shower fixtures would not fit. This meant no pretty shower. I weathered that disappointment valiantly. The second frustration came when the plumber announced that he did not have all the tubing he needed. So, $50 in cab fare later, I had purchased the little plastic tubes he needed, only to be told that not only were the tubes I brought the wrong ones, but he had the right ones in his truck all along. I smiled.

There were minor difficulties in removing the old toilet and sink, and some slightly more significant problems installing the toilet. I'm not convinced that the tank should wobble the way that it does, but it's operational and at this point that's all I can ask. I don't even mind that only after the installation did I realize they sent the wrong toilet bowl, and the seat doesn't fit.

The meltdown came when we realized that the pedestal and the sink did not fit each other. When I called I was told that happens sometimes, and that they could have a matching set to me sometime next week.

That's when I had my meltdown. At $150 an hour, I really wanted to have my bathroom finished. I spoke with two managers at Home Depot who, frankly, handled my frustration brilliantly. I had to dismiss the plumber, but the matching pedestal and sink are at least in my home. I have to come home early on Monday so that the plumber can finish the job. There are going to be more problems -- pedestal and drain placement and the mystery of the pipes behind the wall in the relation to where new holes have to be drilled for the brackets that will hold the sink. I have demanded that Home Depot give me a credit for the cost of the sink. They said they would talk about compensation for my difficulties once the project was completed. Since I've pre-ordered kitchen floor supplies and a new refrigerator and stove, I think I'll get what I want.

As I write this I am listening to the cast album for Wicked. We're singing one of the songs in our upcoming concert. The songs from the show are very pretty, but I can't get a sense of the plot from the recording. Essentially, I believe its the story of the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz. Very touching music.

And as I sit in my comfortable home, worrying about installing a sink, typing on my computer and listening to music, I realize just how small my frustrations of the day have been. No one I love is dead. I have food I really do not need in the kitchen. I'm warm and I'm not worried about being blown to bits at any moment. Socially, the only real issue I face is that someone might be rude to me because they wonder what I might do with my genitals. Oh, the horror.

How do you make any of it have any meaning? And if you do, what's the point and who cares? The best I can do is propose a possible answer to the first question. Meaning comes through gratitude and humility. Perhaps the point is finding someone and making their world such that such small issues as dripping drains and losing those last five pounds are their biggest worries. Finding someone who at the end of it all you can say, "Who can say if I've been changed for the better? But because I knew you I have been changed for good."

Obama

If I were asked to vote for president this very minute, I'd probably throw my support behind Barak Obama. It is of course early, but at this juncture I'm going to back the Democratic front runner. I cannot envision the nightmare that would evolve under the current roster of Republican prospects; my limited imaginative abilities weren't able to conceive the horror of Bush II, but I'm sure it will only get worse.

Arianna Huffington posts on her blog that the Reverend Al Sharpton is being particularly hard on Barak Obama. She posits that it may be out of jealousy or as some sort of fraternal hazing. She is missing the glaring point and perhaps the brilliance of an emerging Democratic strategy. If the Democrats are critical of their candidates, they control the criticism. Since Ronald Reagan -- at least -- the Republicans have controlled the political discourse in this country. The brilliance of Clinton I was that he was able to meet the enemy on their own field of battle and beat them at their own game. Clinton II has not mastered that game, and it's a little too late for her to learn on the job. I'm more convinced that in the absence of term limits, Clinton's value is to continue to groom herself to assume Kennedy's mantle when he retires.

Obama, however, is very wisely having political allies asking the difficult questions. It's a very sophisticated version of what Bush has done his entire political life with his town meetings. But Huffington's questions are rather dismissive of the political value of Al Sharpton. I thank God for Al Sharpton. The man has very limited potential for elected political office, but I think the next president absolutely must include Mr. Sharpton on his/her cabinet. America needs such intelligent, plain-spoken citizens advising our president.

Finished

Well, the penultimate class of my program has ended, and I'm afraid I let it end with a whimper. Two weeks from the end I became sick and never recovered the momentum needed to complete my final paper. To say that it was feeble and weak would be kind. If the professor is feeling generous, she may allow me an A-, but frankly I expect I'll pull a B. Not happy about it, but completely deserved.

The winter quarter has always proven to be the most difficult for me. February is historically the month where crap happens that I have to deal with. This year it was the serious fall and the worst flu of my adult life. Crappy weather sealed the deal and I found that I only had energy to blog and watch television. I think I was ten minutes late to work every day in February.

But March is always the up-swing month, and I have a full week to recover. I have a short story that I've been dying to get to. I'm going to finish it this weekend and then I'm going to see what I have in my library that I can polish up and possibly submit for publication in the student magazine. A couple of years ago I wrote a surrealistic peace that has some potential. I'd like to submit three short stories and three poems. That's the target.

Work continues to be boringly dramatic in that there is a lot of emotion but no real action. Being the human resources person means that all the emotion comes washing up on my desk and I have to deal with it. Today I simply got up from my desk at lunch and walked out of the office. If I had to look at another employee my head was going to pivot 360 degrees and I was going to start shouting obscene things about the mothers in the office. Because I make up the holiday schedule, the office is closed tomorrow in honor of "I Want A Holiday in March" Day. I'm celebrating by getting a new bathroom.

New "Must Read"

I've suffered terribly in trying to decide whether or not to add "It's a Booger" to my must-read list. I so want my blog to be elegant, and well -- let's face it -- "It's a Booger" is not a particularly elegant title.

And yet it is written by one of my favorite people in all the world. And, while the collection of words that make up the title suffer from a lack of elan, the reason for the title is darn elegant. They are the first complete sentence uttered by the author's first child.

And that, being as elegant as is humanly possible, is why I decided to add "It's a Booger" to my must-read list.

Political Collateral Damage

The politics in the office are heating up and my allegiance to one side came with a small price today. Our concierge quit. This would be the concierge that I spent months trying to hire. She's in the middle of some very big projects, and because I've been her functional supervisor for the past two months I offered to step in and finish one of the higher-profiled projects.

However, the project is for "the other side," and my offer was quite rudely rejected. I was told that I am to have no client contact, that the client would hate me, and that instead they were putting a giggly little twit on the project. Never mind the fact that virtually every detail of the project came from me and the giggly twit has the sophistication of a ... well, giggly twit.

The real reason is because I am a blind supporter of the CEO's. The battle that has been brewing for the past few months is going to come to a head next week. The CEO has said it's either "him or me," and if they go with him I will shortly be out of a job. Frankly, I'm not worried. The only sane option is to go with the CEO, and if they get rid of him I don't want to stay anyway.

Still, in the instance at hand, the smart thing would have been to have me finish the high-profile project. As I've said, the job just has to hold through graduation, which is June 17. Everything after that is gravy.

Now, I've put off working on my paper long enough.

Why I Write

I started writing as a means of control. As a professional actor I had little of it, and the control seemed to diminish with each step up the ladder of success. I discovered that I wanted to tell my own stories and I didn't want them filtered through someone else's alleged talent. Writing serves as an artistic outlet that I desperately need. In my past, I've had many people in my life who were/are brilliant writers. I envy them. I envy the flow, the voice, the diction. My mother, who has a high-school education, is one of the best writers I know. She's clear, charming, funny, and articulate. I love reading her.

When I was in college, I idolized one of the upper classmen. He got all the lead roles and he was smart and ethical. I'm a sucker for someone with a personal moral code. And he wrote. I read one of his plays, and it was clever. He's a very successful novelist now, and I've read one of his novels. It's long and intricate, and not something I would have ever read if I didn't have a personal conection to the author, but after reading it I was exhilerated. In college I could never have played the roles that he played, but I could have written the novel of his that I read. Then a few years later I discovered another college mate was published. This one was also smart and funny, but even without reading his book I knew that it wasn't anything I couldn't better. I took both books as a personal challenge.

There are many other people I admire who are accomplished writers. Writing is just a small part of their talent that I envy/worship. And I am incapable of admiration without a smidgeon of competition. I believe in healthy competition.

I write because I am not as smart as I wish I was. I'm not witty. I'm thick tongued and emotional and I need the space to work out my thoughts. I need the pause to correct my statements, which when made in person seem to come out all wrong. By writing, I feel like I have a chance with some of the people that I admire. I could be a peer. And now, as I near the end of my degree, I find that I enjoy writing. I'm thrilled at the possibility of it all. Writing my fiction is an adventure. I've done enough to know that when it goes well, there is no control, that I'm at the mercy of inspiration, but it's all mine.

I'm not yet widely read, but I think that some day, soon, I may be.

Hodge Podge

This is going to be a hodge podge of information...

Well, I have officially stepped into the twenty-first century and have gotten "hig-speed" internet instead of my tried and true AOL dial up. The wonders never cease.

Work still continues to be interesting. It looks like the company is going to settle in at about fifty employees -- too few for a real HR person. I'm hoping the job holds out until I graduate. Then if I can hang on for another year while I do the Ph.D. application things, I should be golden. The good news is that even though I've asked everyone who should know, they tell me there are no plans to lay me off. From a purely economic point of view, I don't get that decision, but I've been around long enough to know that I shouldn't rock a boat.

Having the flu last week really put me behind and now I'm scrambling with my final paper. One more paper.

We have five weeks before the chorus concert and I barely know which way to face on stage, let alone have any of the music memorized.

This is the time of year when I really have to resist the urge to chuck everything and go work at McDonald's. February 1 to April 1 is my danger zone.

All I want to do is write my novel.

Senioritis

I could not be less interested in my class right now. Just one more meeting and the major paper is due. As usual I'm teetering between an A and an A-, so I have to do my best on this paper to pull out the grade. All I can think about is writing a novel. I don't dare start that project until June. One more class, then graduation. I'm going to take the summer to rough out the novel, then when fall comes I'll polish up some of my papers to put together my writing portfolio for my Ph.D. applications. When I look at the calendar like that, the year is practically over.

And winter is just dragging on forever. Please, no more snow. Please.

Recovery

Sunday morning. Is there anything more glorious? The flu is finally almost over, there is sunshine, and I just permitted myself two whole delicious hours over a bagel and the Sunday New York Times at a coffee shop. I felt as if I got a preview of heaven.

I am not a good sick person. I need a staff to rub my feet and heat chicken soup and pick up used tissue and feed the cat and plump my pillows and... I even got fussy with the TV. Over two hundred channels and at least that many films that can be summoned at the click of a button, and there still wasn't anything to watch. I didn't think it possible, but I just might have reached my fill of television. My televised news source of choice in the past as been CNN. Now, with a full-time job and school, I have not devoted enough time to keeping abreast of current events, and what knowledge I do have comes from Internet reading. Since I was barely able to open my eyes, let alone sit upright, I pointed my clicker at the television and commanded CNN.

I am not a Wolf Blitzer fan. I never have been. But, now that I'm nearing the completion of my masters degree in writing, I have a better understanding of why. There are three basic rhetorical structures an argument can take: ethos (ethics), logos (logical), or pathos (emotional). I think I've always assumed that news broadcasters were, if not neutral, at least logical in their presentation of the news. Not so. And while all of them that I reviewed while fighting my way through this viral nightmare were pretty bad, Wolf Blitzer was by far the worst; presenting each story in emotional, if not hyperbolic terms. If I watched the news on a regular basis, I think I'd either put a bullet in my brain or move to a cave in Wyoming. No more televised news for me.

Not that the New York Times is necessarily a neutral source of information. The front page picture is of a dewy-eyed ingenue telling her father good-bye as she heads off to Iraq. No unnecessary heart-string plucking there.

But I did find a wonderful article by Joan Didion in which she essays about the creation of a stage version of her essay collection The Year of Magical Thinking, which will open at the end of the month and star Vanessa Redgrave. This may be the first Broadway event that I would think about making a pilgrimage for.

I have not been an extensive Didion reader, only taking in what has been assigned in a couple of classes. She was held up as the gold standard for essay writing in a recent class and I've mentally put her on my post-graduation reading list. I haven't yet read anything from her that really speaks to me; there's a detachment in her writing that I find mildly frustrating. There are couple of photos of her with this essay, and the detachment seems to be there as well; a frail woman behind over-sized dark glasses, delicate pageboy and a straight, red line for a mouth. Still, I'm an enormous fan of her spirit. Magical Thinking is a collection of essays that she wrote the year following her husband's death. Shortly after the essays were published Didion's only daughter also died. While processing that grief as well, the Times essay tells us, Didion allowed herself to be persuaded into developing the stage piece -- a first for her. From the photos, Didion is at least in her seventies, if not a decade older. I admire -- no, revere -- that spirit.

I look forward to reading those essays, and because I'm going to have to put them off for at least another four months I'm afraid I'm going to be disappointed once I get to them. But I expect to learn how to deal with my first real glimpse into the abyss and how to process it in realistic terms. I'm at a point in my life where I want the remainder of it to be lived elegantly and purposefully, with no unnecessary muss. I guess that means that I'm going to have to get busy and write something significant so that I can afford that staff before my next bout with the flu.

Not Dead...

...but that doesn't mean I haven't prayed for it. I am slooowly recovering from the most wicked bout of flu I've ever had. All I can say is thank god for my DVR and TNT's Law & Order marathons. I love Jerry Orbach, Steven Hill, and Angie Harmon.