This has not been a good week for Dear Diary entries. Either I’m so tired that I can’t see straight, or I’m preoccupied by very boring insights. Tonight, going in, I can assure you that I have nothing to say.

Which is to say that I kept my head down and worked hard all day. All day? Yes, all day.

And then I remember that I interrupted the Daily Office process to go out for a haircut. I got the haircut; I had a club sandwich at the Hi-Life, and I bought much more than I’d planned on at Agata & Valentina. Then I came home and got back to work. I’m still at work, even though I completed every project scheduled for today hours ago. But all I thought about while I was out was how I wanted to change this and that at the Daily Office.

I am Mr All-Work at the moment — which isn’t a problem. The problem is that I was brought up (by the literary lights whom I read when I was young) to look for a certain kind of story. There’s another kind of story lying around here somewhere — not that my pointing that out is at all interesting. But I’ll figure it out.

Speaking of optimism, do you think that Randolph Scott, in real life, said, “you’re swell!” anywhere near as often as he said it in the movies? He’s such a doofus that I suspect that he did. “You’re swell!” sounds like the limit of his brainpower. Gay men like to imagine that Scott and Cary Grant, when they lived together in the Thirties, had something physical going. “Don’t make me laugh,” as Grant said in about forty movies. I’m sure that Grant, who was seen trading currency futures during the making of Gunga Din, figured out a way to make Scott pay more than his share of the rent. The ideal roomate, no?  

In other news, I can’t decide whether to bore you with the story about boring Kathleen last night. We don’t call it boring, of course, even when Kathleen falls asleep at the dinner table; we just say that my voice is soporific. Kathleen asked a question about Mozart that led to a discussion — via the fact that Mozart’s father, Leopold, came from Augsburg, in Bavaria, on a sort of get-out-while-you-can basis (Leopold’s handling of his son’s very considerable child-prodigy earnings doesn’t make him the Bernie Madoff of the 1780s, but one suspects that that’s only from lack of suckers) — of the electors of the Holy Roman Empire. Even I had trouble keeping track. Kathleen would seek FDA approval, if she didn’t want me all for herself.

Ah! Kathleen just got home, and I want to read to her the funny piece in this week’s New Yorker, “For Immediate Release” by Paul Simms. I haven’t laughed so much at a New Yorker casual in — a long time.

 

Drop me a line at rjk@dailyblague.com
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