This is one of those days where I intended on doing some serious writing, so as a result, the laundry got more attention than it's earned. I loiter on facebook and make sure the dishes are in tip top condition. Anything but write something useful and readable.
This is also one of those days where I really don't feel like writing because I am expected to do so, so in true scribe fashion, I am writing about how much I hate writing. I have two papers due soon on highly technical aspects of computer maintenance and programming but prefer to bitch about the weather, crappy pop music and recently discovered pop music. If I can find the time, maybe drop a few F-bombs on the suckitude of the 2010 Red Sox season thus far.
I was thoroughly pumped a few weeks ago when I bought my son Robbie the most recent volume in Jeff Kinney's Diary of a Wimpy Kid series. Not only did he say "Yes!" with Marv Albert-like enthusiasm when I handed it to him, but he actually finished it the next day in a single sitting instead of bringing in his Nintendo DS unit where he normally chaired a lunchtime coffee klatch while networking the units together in a virtual outdoors while reposing in the warm, dry comfort of indoors. In the days before Bill Gates existed as a role model, parents frowned on such behavior. I'm still content to have him work that muscle in his head once a while as well.
More than once I've found Robbie paraphrasing Sam from iCarly's axiom that "reading is like TV for your head." Good man.
One the same trip I'd picked up Robbie's book, I'd bought Stieg Larsson's Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and Jim Butcher's Dead Beat. I was already reading Leg Grossman's The Magician's on the suggestion of a friend so they would be my to-do list once school finished.
Speaking of which, outside of the substances that inspired me in youth, my prime motivator was a deadline, which calls now. Two term papers are due by midnight. Let's see if I can make it. Later friends.