Man, I still hate my template. But then I never blog, so who am I to complain? I think a lot might have changed since I last wrote, but summarizing is beyond my attention span at this point. Today I am suffering (mildly) from a headache induced by grey weather and (I am convinced) inadequate office air flow. It's a typical friday here at the Bird. [My company is named after a bird of prey, which I will not name in this forum.] The coworker who sits closest to me has left for the day, so I feel free to put on Pandora and turn it up to almost level 3 in volume. I made a new station today - The Sea and Cake Radio - and Talking Heads' beautiful This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody) is making my afternoon brighter. Today has been a slow day: a blessing for my dysfunctional brain but, by definition, not the best way to make time go fast. I am looking forward to a quiet evening at home, perhaps doing laundry, perhaps watching a movie, perhaps just watching the umpteenth episode of The Office on DVD, with commentary. I just got finished watching the first season of Arrested Development - the first time I'd seen the whole thing in order, all the way through. I always thought it was uncommonly funny, but now I am really floored by its brilliance. Such a perfection of elements present all at once: writing, acting, directing, chemistry. I am sad that it ended after only three seasons, but only in the purely childlike, selfish way of one who wants Christmas EVERY DAY, even though that would sour the whole effect of such a holiday. I am of the cliched (not to mention Puritanical) school that tends to think that too much of a good thing makes it less good. Also, I have some vague idea that it is better to have produced a small amount of brilliant art than a large amount of average or mediocre fare. I can't think of a show that was consistently good for more than 3 years, anyway. (The Simpsons probably comes the closest, but just try to imagine that achievement with live actors. Cheers? Nope. The Cosby Show? Nope. Seinfeld? No way.) As I write this, I feel like a crotchety old person. But short-lived brilliance does not make me feel crotchety or cynical or sad. It makes me wonder what kinds of brilliance might lie inside me and those I love. It makes me want to engage with the world in the hope of inducing such brilliance in myself and others. It is perhaps slightly easier to feel this sort of impulse in the wake of the recent election. The long, weary trudge of the soul through the Bush years has yielded to a more sprightly stride. I keep the New Yorker cover depicting a long red tunnel with a blue light at the end next to my bed. It reminds me to dream at night.