¶ Matins: Lately, I’ve been so busy that I haven’t known where to begin. The answer, I now discover, is nowhere. Do not begin. Take the brilliant time-saving tips of billionaires from all walks of filthitude in Gordon Bennett’s droll report at W. Who would know better than a billionaire what a colossal waste of time merely living can be!

¶ Lauds: Instead of going to bed like a good boy, I get down to working on the Words branch of Portico, something that I’ve been meaning to do for a long time,  by inventing a new page: Workshop.

¶ Tierce: At the moment, it looks as though next week’s primary in West Virginia is actually going to mean something, possibly.

¶ Sext: Kathleen and I have been invited to a fiftieth-birthday party this evening, and we’ve decided that a nice bottle of port is what we’d like to give. So, I’m off to Sherry-Lehmann in a little while.

Oremus…

§ Matins. Jason Kottke, from whom I lifted this link, claims not to know whether Mr Bennett is pulling his leg. Aw, c’mon!

I had occasion to note the other day that the true test of tyranny is the willingness of everyone from senior officials to lowly civilians to be bored to death by their beloved leader. Similarly, the true test of wealth is how much of other people’s time you can have wasted. I’m reminded of an ancient dame from  the chi-chi Dongan Hills quartier of Staten Island (not a joke) who liked her popovers fresh from the oven but who disliked waking to an alarm clock. Her staff started popover production at first light and kept at it until the old bag sat up. Impressive, no?

§ Lauds. For four years at least — the entire time that I’ve been blogging — the Words branch of Portico has just sat there, untouched. Lately, though, I’ve been stinging from — not just feeling — a range of brainwaves about usage that cry out to be set down in a dedicated space. The new Workshop page is intended not to lay down the law but, just the opposite, to solicit opinions. If the problem at hand seems precious or moribund to you, don’t comment, but if you, too, feel that you’ve faced a similar quandary, then I hope that you’ll be generous with your advice.

I begin with what I was taught to call a “dangling modifier.” What about you? What did they call it when you were in school?

§ Tierce. While the gregarious simpleton in me wants to drive a stake through the heart of Baroness Hillary Meanster, or at least arrange for her bodily assumption to the Supreme Court, the wise, greybeard half of my brain mutters about the Democratic Party, which seems hell bent on proving me right: it’s the Party that gave up its life for the sake of Civil Rights. Let’s remember that Bill Clinton would never have made it to the White House if it hadn’t been for that Ralph Nader of the Right, Ross Perot. The Obamacans believe, not without reason, that the Clintons don’t represent the Democratic Party nearly so much as they represent themselves, but this is just another way of saying that the franchise is pitifully up for grabs.

You’ll have heard about turning swords into plowshares. Much needed now is the ability to turn elitists into vote-getters.  Mr Obama seems to have figured out part of the secret, however inadvertently. When a black man can be “accused” of “elitism” by a white woman, maybe we’re getting somewhere.

§ Sext. Thanks to the Web site, I know what to expect when I ask for a bottle in my price range — which I’ve raised a bit accordingly.

If I’m still in the mood, I’ll wander over to the other side of midtown, to look for a casual shirt to wear to Sunday brunch on the Lower East Side.

Drop me a line at rjk@dailyblague.com
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