Tuesday, May 20, 2003

Mom and Dad are on their way to the funeral in Springfield this morning. Leaving a swarthy 90 extra minutes in case they get lost on the way. That just amazes me, Dad's commitment to being on time. I guess to some degree those aren't necessarily hours lost, but that's a risk - what happens in those 90 minutes in Springfield? It's not enough time to do anything in Springfield. They don't have a son they could sit and drink coffee with in leisurely fashion, or walk their favorite dog. I wonder how you would attach a value scale to those different activities? Money isn't the only way to measure scarcity against enjoyment. If there were a currency for time, how would we do it? And how could we do it, without understanding our  place in the cosmos? This moment is a moment measured against the impossibly and ridiculously applied time scale of this short lifetime. 8:22:32 AM

I love the first mosquitos of the season. The not-quite-ready-for-prime-time-just-woke up variety. The minor leaguers. The ones who've forgotten in the recesses of their slumbering evil primeval collective conciousness that bloodsucking is not a suckers game, but a commando raid. I only had a couple half-hearted attempts tonight at the driving range, but they were almost tragic, as if the insects couldn't remember why they landed on me in the first place. One of them, I thought I might have to telll him he was supposed to bite me, not braid my flaxen arm hairs. It may be better that we don't swat those ones. Let the listless live. Be bloodbanks for the least competent mosquitos, the half-hearted, the "good" vampires among the brood. We might even create, through selective breeding, teams of mosqitos quite proficient at corn rows and other highly intricate hair work. Maybe their genes can eventually override and outlive the really vengeful mo-fo's, the ones who seem to relish the bloodletting, flying in with PA systems strapped to the fuselage, blaring a buzzing Ride of the Valkyries, just out of reach of your sleepy anti-aircraft hand. Ah, the horror. The horror. And summer has not yet begun. 1:02:23 AM