Ring a ding dong, the heat is finally gone. Dig it.

Well, my unofficial challenge to myself to update daily this month was foiled last night when my iMac suddenly became violently ill. I'll spare you the details, but, I will tell you that if you hear a sound coming from inside your computer that sounds like a car trying to turn over, it is not a good sign. When I ran the software that analyzes and fixes the problems, it said that had I not repaired it soon, my computer would have given up the digital ghost. So: "Whew."

Briefly, I'd like to add that the idea of paying for phone technical support is just evil. Charge me all you want if you have to send someone out to do some work, or replace parts, sure, but, you're going to sell me a product and then charge me if I have any questions about it? And, should I choose not to pay, too bad for me? I'm smart enough to understand all of their justifications for this, but the idea that they would charge me $49 to have some yutz on the phone tell me to insert a CD and follow the instructions on it smacks of low class.

If I were elderly, I'd write a letter to the editor.

Last night: Dreamt I was in a band. My instrument: The radio. I'd choose something and the band would play along. This seemed to be good enough for the crowd in the bar. Have I discovered the true rock n' roll swindle? Someone try it out and let me know.

Ah, the workplace, that never ending mine of material. I work with roughly 95% women. Incidentally, the best thing about working in an almost all female office, is that if there's liquid on the staff toilet seat, you can pretty safely assume that it's just water splashed over from the sink. Anyway, this week, as I've been led around the office and introduced to the many people whose names I will not remember, I keep hearing the same thing over and over: "Oh, another man, finally." To which one of the other black or latina girls (who seemingly control the administrative world of everything in Chicago, so if you're not down, you're out) will reply "That other 'man' ain't no man, he's a baby." No one has bothered to elaborate on this point for me, and I certainly haven't seen any other guys on the administrative staff, so if any of us are ever going to find out if I myself am a man or a baby, I'm going to have to ask directly. I'll let you know as soon as the results are in.

I looked up my family in the medical records. Apparently my dad is not deceased, as was previously believed. Seems like the whole funeral thing was an elaborate sham. God bless that old codger.

I'm reading a book on writing called 'Bird By Bird' by Anne Lamott. It is the second such book I have read in this vein, the other one being 'Wild Mind' by Natalie Goldberg, who Lamott references with respect, which reassures me I'm reading the right books. If you're interested in writing, I heartily recommend either book. From 'Bird By Bird': (Indulge me, OK?)

"Thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten at the time, was trying to get a report on birds written that he'd had three months to write. It was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then, my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brother's shoulder, and said, 'Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird."

Lovely.

There's also a section of the book where the writer mentions writing about school lunches as an exercise. She launches into a monologue on peanut butter and jelly, and starts to talk about all the variations on the sandwich. Types of jam, types of bread, styles of preparation. As I was reading it, I thought to myself, "Ha, this is funny. My dad would always make PB&J using apricot jelly. That's kind of odd."

Lo and behold, a few paragraphs later, she states something to the effect that dads always use apricot jelly, as if it were their special province. Talk about connecting with an author. Anyone else's dad have a predilection towards apricot? It is now my life's most burning question.

Alright, then. I'm off to hang out with the diseased.