Sunday, September 13th, 2009
It’s late Sunday night and Mad Men is on (but we’re recording it,) and my adverbs aren’t doing as well as they should, but I’m bothered by the number of things I’ve seen, composed words to share with you in my head, and then never managed to get them committed to this fine, surely permanent form.
So, like so many others who do this kind of thing, I write a paragraph like this as much to me as to you: Must. Put. Words. Out. There. They don’t do me nearly as much good bottled inside. They’re happier, free on the internetwaves, banking, packet-colliding, being shunted from switch to router to hub.
So, so much. Local politics. The snowiest of leopards. The most oleophobic of phones. The plans for a journey of several thousand miles that will begin with a single tank in the prius. The art of putting old letterhead in an IBM typewriter, composing, and sending an actual written letter. All of that, bottled.
But, hey, it’s late Sunday night and Mad Men is on (but we’re recording it.)