Dear Diary Monday:
Let’s see, what’d I do today? Not much, I can tell you that. Finished up the blog this morning and sent it over to Mr. Editor’s cave. That didn’t take long. Had it 95 percent done Saturday anyway. Did the other 5 percent Sunday. By this morning, all I had left to do was stare at the words for a half-hour or so to see if any mutant logic spiders come jumping out. I hate it when those bastards show up after I’ve already beamed it in. I’ve missed a few of 'em over the years, and let me tell you, 'tain’t no fun to get a call from your editor telling you, “Hey a**hole, this s*** you sent doesn't make any f***ing sense.”
Then, thought about dressing up real warm and going outside, but couldn't come up with any good reasons. What was I going to do out there?… check the neighborhood for polar bears? Thought about starting Friday’s blog so I wouldn't have to worry about it later. Only didn't want to sit down and write. Kept thinking about that mountain of leaves I’d left piled up on the front yard when the damn snow hit. Then the damn cold. Looks like there’s a dead mastodon under all that snow. May be Easter before I can get rid of those bastard leaves. I hate winter. Just f***ing hate it.
Dear Diary Tuesday:
Have found that without the ability to go outside whenever I feel like it, I turn into someone I don’t much like being around.
It’s like all of America is sitting around watching the snow pile up outside and waiting to see what happens in Ferguson. Or with immigration reform when Obama says what he’s going to do about it. Or with Congress when he does it. Or with ISIS. Or with the Keystone whatchamacallit. Or with this, or with that. I don’t want to write about any of that crap because whatever I might write will probably change next week anyway. Or tomorrow. Or the next day. And besides, it’s boring. And that’s exactly what I turn into when I turn into someone I don’t much like being around because I can’t go outside. Bored Bill.
Bored bored bored Bill.
Think I know why animals in zoos pace back and forth in their cages so much. Switched on the news about mid-morning to see if anything was different. There was. A small plane crashed into a house in Chicago. Maybe that’s what I could write about for Friday’s blog… how much I am absolutely against
airplanes of any size crashing into houses. Whoopee.
Switched on a little later and found out some a**hole terrorists had killed some rabbis in a Jerusalem synagogue. I am absolutely against that, too. Would write about how much I am against it, but I’m so sick of the Middle East, I could f***ing puke.
Lunchtime, eating my oatmeal and raisons, I pick up the daily and find an article about how Frederic Chopin’s heart had been separated from the rest of him back in 1849. That’s not why he died. He died because he was sick. But supposedly, Frederic—who died in Paris—told somebody just before he kicked that he wanted his ticker sent back to Poland after he was gone. Totally loved Poland, old Freddy did, and his dying wish was for at least part of himself to go home. Chopin’s buddies, I guess, dropped the heart into a big jar of some kind of booze and smuggled it into Warsaw.
Keep in mind… this all happened at least 125 years before the first Polish joke.
That heart’s been hanging out—same jar, same booze—in a Catholic church there in Warsaw until last spring. Some investigators took it out to see how it was holding up. This was all done in secret, but in September they announced what they’d done, which was essentially no more than taking pictures of the thing.
So, sans a few details, that’s the story. Sort of interesting, I thought. Maybe I could get Friday’s blog out of it, I thought. Might stick on a video of some pianist playing one of Freddy’s more well known pieces, I thought.
Then I thought “Nah.” I put a Chopin in the blog just a couple weeks ago. Besides, I never cared that much for his stuff. Too frilly. It sounds like those cabbage butterflies fluttering over a potato patch to me. And knowing part of Fred is in Paris and part in Warsaw doesn't make it any better.
Dear Diary Wednesday:
Never thought I’d say this, but I’m almost wishing that little interview weenie would show up. Scooter… Skippy… Junior… Sonny… whatever the hell his name is. He’s a pest, but at least I’d have something for Friday’s damn blog. Just let him do all the talking. I get paid the same either way.
Oh. Haven’t even mentioned that I was about halfway through cleaning up the garden when the damn snow hit. One day I’m pulling fresh tomatoes off the tomato tree. Next day the tomato tree has eight inches of snow on it. Then the next day the whole damn thing freezes up solider than Ted Williams’ head. What a mess. Between that and the dead mastodon laying out on my front lawn, it may take until Fourth of July before I get it all cleaned up for next summer.
Speaking of Ted Williams’ cryogenic head, I wonder if it’s too late to write about that. What was that? 10…12 years ago? I didn't write anything about it back then, but I sure coulda. I mean, if they’re still goofing around with Frederic Chopin’s heart 160-some years later, surely I could get a couple hundred words out of Ted William’s frozen head.
Jesus, I am bored.
Dear Diary Thursday:
Scooter showed up this morning. I shooed him away. He wanted to know what I thought about the Bill Cosby rape allegations. It was either that or how the Mormons just admitted that Joseph Smith had 40 wives. Not sure what he wanted to talk about, now that I think about it. He came early. Before my second cup. Kept saying something about “all those women.” I asked him what he would charge me to get the dead mastodon off of my front lawn, and he gave me that look my wife gives me all the time. Like last night, as a matter of fact, when I told her I was thinking about having my head frozen when I die. Hate that look. It’s like she’s thinking, Crap, I didn’t see THIS coming.
So I shooed him away, and now I regret it. Haven’t written a word all week. Well, except for…
Dear Diary Friday:
Let’s see, what’d I do today? Not much, I can tell you that. Finished up the blog this morning and sent it over to Mr. Editor’s cave. That didn’t take long. I’d been working on it all week long. Except, didn’t know it at the time. But what the hell. I get paid the same either way.
Spent most of the morning staring out at the dead mastodon, wondering if I could hire a snowplow to push it out into the street. Let ACHD worry about it. Then lunchtime, I’m eating my oatmeal and raisons when Mr. Editor calls. Says, “Hey a**hole, this s*** you sent doesn’t make any f***ing sense.”
Realized too late I hadn’t done my mutant logic spider check like I shoulda. Oh well.