Here’s something that I know from the web, Dot is angry. I also know that Larry is something like persecuted and delusional, maybe persecusional. Jeremy is out meta-ing David Winer, early blogger and early annoying, self-important blogger, on the topic of what else ‘blogging. Tim is defensive. Kyria is probably tired.

I know all of these things because of the world wide web. I know all these things, because I procrastinate like nobody’s business. I know all of these things, because somewhere deep down inside I like to torment myself with bouts of self-loathing, occasionally followed by forgiveness, and quickly segueing into feelings of inadequacy.

In other words, writing didn’t exactly go zippy today. Or at all, really. I did laundry. M. and I tossed a softball around the park down the street in preparation for company softball in April. I walked to my workplace with M. and picked up the scooter I had left over the weekend.

Finally, I cooked an expensive pork roast, pre-marinated and stuffed with apricot and pistachios by the local gourmet grocer. Here’s the new stage in M.’s and my relationship, I call it Ozzie and Harriet. Does anyone fucking remember Ozzie and Harriet, the heartwarming completely phony world of the Nelsons?

Take away the vaguely gender neutral, secretly drug-taking sons, and imagine me on a Sunday afternoon with an apron and pearls. We’ve been having the full meat and two veg monty of a traditional family dinner come a Sunday. We figured out gourmet meat and a little time is actually not a bad way to end the weekend. It’s a bit cheaper than our restaurant bills, and it’s way easier to get second or even third helpings.

Here’s a completely on topic but tangential fun fact — Pat HATED Ozzie Nelson. Apparently, back around a thousand years or go, give or take the 1950s, she spent a summer waitressing at a Jersey shore type of fancy rich folk getaway, kind of like the resort in Dirty Dancing, although that was all mountainous and shit, not ocean-y. Ozzie dropped by, acted like an imperious dick and than stiffed her on the tip. Ah, good old-fashioned, American family values.

So, we had the playing catch at the park, and we had the roasted animal flesh. And, our clean clothes smell rain-water fresh, better living through chemistry.

But, I fancy myself an artiste, a temperamental brooding thing with deep thoughts and ideas to be expressed. I do not fancy myself a suburbanite in Gap Khaki shorts and an old, college-branded sweatshirt. (Although, at the fucking least, I have not yet, even in a moment of deep ironic fancy, considered a sweatshirt with hand-painted kitties or swirling streaks of artful gold paint with flecks of glitter. My jeans lack an elastic waistband even though I’m in my 40s. As a straw to grasp, I have that.)

Artists, in my fantasy, write. They work on their memoirs. As a back up plan, apparently in my case, they read weblogs and taunt their friends.

The bitch is that if it wasn’t for the web and computers, I probably never would have thought about writing publicly. And, if it wasn’t for the contact and encouragement from friends, family and total strangers via the web, I wouldn’t keep plugging away. My solace is also my time-crushing complete jerk off activity. What the fuck, I guess, masturbation is like work sometimes, even if it’s all mental.

Thank god, I told my mentor type person I would have lunch with him a week from tomorrow. Time is at the moment on my side. Kind of.

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