Virtue, lack of its own reward-ness: Arrived at work before ten this morning. Result? I had to stay on until eight at night anyway, because the last phone call I took went on almost two hours anyway.
Mmmmm: Waking up to very nice half-naked boy. Nothing naughty having gone on, just the sense of living sculpture.
Music: Beethoven Violin Concerto, Thomas Zehetmair, Frans Br�ggen, the Orchestra of the Motherfucking Eighteenth Century. The muffled timpani in the first movement, the moment at minute seven (repeated at sixteen) where the bass instruments in the orchestra gruffly undermine the g-minor ladder the solo part has built all the way up, . . . well, it's very good.
Best Footnote Ever: Goes to JD again.
Scary: Spider nesting in my window, at least two centimeters across. I would evict her but getting close is even scarier than sleeping in the same room.
Excuses: None. I should be writing brilliant Diaryland essays at work instead of goofing off talking about software all day on the telephone with retired refrigerator-parts salesmen from Spokane.
Weakerthans: the concert to which I went on Friday evening and is making me reconsider my life. Am I political enough for John K. Samson? What would John K. Samson do in my shoes? Did he notice my small and solitary fist shaken up against the gods when he sang the line, "rely a bit too heavily on alcohol and irony"? I have never seen a C*mbr*dg* audience actually happy to see a band before (you get the feeling that if they smiled, their faces might break). JKS, drily, says, "There are books on the merch table back there -- hey, let's hear it for books!" and there was pretty hearty applause. I would rather die than live in a world where that sort of experience is denied me.
Rock!: DA from work knows Flanders & Swann. Cold.
Alcohol: at work, a sak� tasting, after which I took the call from hell.
Irony: Si monumentum requiris, circumspice.
I am going to dine with some men. If anyone calls, . . .