I’m convinced that no good can come from a blog, and yet here we are.

What it comes down to in the end is jealousy. I have too many friends with their own websites and I’m feeling a bit left out. This sort of follow-the-leader thing runs in the family—my Uncle Bill being the leader. When Bill got a satellite dish, all the uncles got satellite dishes. When Bill purchased a digital camera, everyone followed suit. And if Bill ever buys a mail order bride from one of those breakaway Russian republics, rest assured that hot Russkie polygamy will run rampant throughout my extended family.

Things you can expect if you visit here on a regular basis:

uninspired web design
irregular updates
irregular bowel movements
stories of my misspent youth
stories of my lazy adulthood (also misspent)

That’ll do for now, I think. It’s a feat that I got this far.

Comments

Anonymous said…

Wow. This is a first.
My friend goes and get himself plugged into the blogged world. Crazy stuff.

And here I am, posting in his Blog.
This is seriously unheard of.

Not since the days where Backgammon was popular would you hear of such a thing.

Or maybe you would?

Who knows.

Jorge

11:50 am

I should add...

... that two people were instrumental in my joining Twitter. First, Isha . She sent out an article on it when the application was still brand new. (And I remember thinking, "Screw that noise. Like I need more online commitments.) Second was Rebecca . She joined up just a short while ago, claiming she hadn't met a bandwidth she didn't like . (And then she disappeared entirely from the internets .) It looked nice and pretty over there on her sidebar, and then I got a little jealous. The rest: history. And for those unobservant among you ( Jorge ), the Twitter feed is right there on my sidebar, replacing the old Radio 3 player that I loved, but that I think scared the bejezus out of a lot of people. Also, everyone should join Twitter. I'm needing some diversions , people.

Change Two: Drink More Water Such a simple thing, yet something I just can't seem to find the time to do. About the only water I drink in your average day is whatever sweat happens to trickle off my mustache. Hydration (so the smart people tell me) is a good thing. I'm less fatigued when I drink water. I'm less hungry when I drink water. I'm even less grumpy when I drink water. I promise you nothing especially impressive. Eight glass a day ain't gonna happen. I'm shooting for two on average; two trendy, metallic, not gonna bleed Bisphenol A into my system bottles of water. I know were off to a rip-roaring start, what with the list-making and the hydration, but I'll try to get crazier with future changes. Stuff like: go to work drunk more, and buy a pair of leather pants. For now, let me ease into it.

A complex phrase, in which the various parts are enchained

“Barry,” my cousin Mike said, “I think it’s time.” It was clear that my brother didn’t feel the same way, but he only shrugged, which Mike took as agreement. “Dave,” he said, giving the words as much gravity as he could muster, “Go get the dictionary.” I was nine years old, and a tag-along. I’d walked in on my brother telling a story about how—during school that morning—a girl he knew got her period in the middle of French class. And I laughed like the dickens. And then they called me on it. After I’d lugged the dictionary down from the spare room, Mike told me to look up the word period and read out the definition. “The end of a cycle, a series of events, or a single action?” “Keep going,” he said. “The full pause with which a sentence closes?” “Not that.” “An interval of geologic—“ “Gimme that!” He yanked the book towards him, read down the page, and pointed me towards the definition he’d found. Menstruation: the monthly discharge of blood from the uterus of nonpregnant women from pu...

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