OK, so I lied. Afternoon has passed, and we’re well into evening. You get what you pay for, and if you want more, go ring up Lance, who apparently has committed to 1,000 words a day, unless it’s Monday through Friday, in which case it’s 2,000. I remember when I started this outfit, back when blog was just a sound you made when you were throwing up — it seemed a big deal to update every day. Now you need to pound the keyboard all day long to be a playa.
Which is why I’m not a playa. Among a million other reasons.
I did pound the keyboard much of the day, but was less productive than I hoped to be. Why? Because I didn’t sleep well last night. I have a get-acquainted visit with a doctor coming up next week, and I’m going to speak aloud the A-word: Ambien. Doing so will usher in the Judy Garland phase of my life, but so what? I want seven uninterrupted hours, and I want them now. The current model is: Three hours asleep, three hours awake, two hours fitful sleep, morning grumpiness, afternoon torpor.
Had my first experience with brining today. Brining means you soak your protein-based entree in salt water before cooking it. It is said to seal in juices. It does so, but I have this tip to add: Omit salt from your spice rub, or else you find yourself glugging down glass after glass of zinfandel, and you don’t want that, unless you do. We had a crackbrain meal tonight — pork tenderloin (brined) on the grill, with sushi for an appetizer. Diversity is a strength, but contemplating the menu made me wonder if I glugged the wine before I started cooking. On the other hand, what’s that supermarket sushi for if not impulse purchasing? I stood over the cooler with supermarket sushi’s target customer — a tall, slender teenager in athletic clothes, obviously on her way home from a practice of some sort, who wants protein in a groovy, low-fat package.
“What is this?” I asked, peering at a sampler selection.
“No idea,” she said. We both bought it.
Then home to the local weekly paper, with its hey-Martha story of the week — about a G.P. Farms resident found dead in his easy chair, TV still on, hand on his chest, after…anyone care to guess the interval? Anyone?
I find these stories rather poignant, as anyone would, I suppose. I find something appealing in leaving as little of my corporal form behind as possible, but not soaked into a chair. What was that scene in “Kundun,” where the monk’s body is dismembered, then taken outside to be carried off by vultures? There’s a funeral I can endorse. Imagine the wake afterward.
How did we take this grim turn? Probably for not getting enough sleep.
Not much bloggage today; I had my mind on other things. Even memeorandum can’t get excited about the day’s big stories. So tomorrow is Thursday, the start of the weekend. Things will improve. See you then.