Tuesday, August 24, 2004
It’s a bit late in the game, gentle reader, but that shouldn’t stop you from checking out this site. What I’m proffering you is 15 minutes worth of intrigue. Make sure to check out the accompanying blog as well.
Monday, August 23, 2004
On Thursday afternoon I found, to my eternal horror, the Mistake Man wandering in the lower levels of my skyscraper. Those of you who’ve never met the Mistake Man should know he resembles a plumber, except he wears no pants. Why? Because–you probably saw this coming–he made a mistake.
When one of my engineers saw the Mistake Man, she gasped, covered her eyes, and immediately called security. The Man was promptly escorted from the building, kicking and screaming all the way. I personally took an elevator down to the maintenance level to survey the damage, and at first glance everything looked fine. Upon closer inspection, however, I noticed that the gallons and gallons of Perfect pumping through my beloved building had been contaminated with a foul black liquid.
The horror of it all! I checked through our recent publications and found at least one of them tainted with gross inaccuracy. The post on chess, for instance, replaced Josh Waitzkin with Bobby Fischer. I’ve seen Searching for Bobby Fischer, of course, and if it weren’t for the Mistake Man I’d have gotten my facts straight.
I don’t know about you, gentle reader, but I feel vindicated. Too bad the Ask Me If I Care Man got to you first.
Friday, August 20, 2004
I remember the first time Muse got sick. I don’t recall the full details, since it happened so long ago, but there is a stark urgency that lingers in my mind to this day. Muse usually enjoys good health, after all, and that only amplifies the moments when she doesn’t feel well.
It was a yellow autumn afternoon, this much I remember, and I walked into the living room to find her draped over the couch.
“Work is killing me,” I began. “Where do you want to go for dinn–“
I noticed she wasn’t her usual self. Was she even breathing?
“Alright, nap time’s over,” I said, giving her a worried shake. “Muse?”
Convinced that she was comatose, I spent the next two hours calling all the cardiologists, the optometrists, the endocrinologists, the botanists, the modernists, the postmodernists, everyone I knew. No one had answers. On a whim I even called the vet, but he could only proffer the same confused silence shared by the other experts.
I walked dejectedly back to the living room and slumped onto the couch. Was there some kind of epidemic going around? I needed answers. The daily newspaper sat invitingly on a coffee table, so I picked it up and eyed the front page.
“More, give me more,” whispered Muse as she stirred from her stillness.
“What do you mean? What’s wrong?” I asked, utterly lost.
She pointed at the paper and it suddenly dawned on me. I sprinted to a bookshelf and plucked a few titles from my library. And then I returned to the living room only to find that Muse had dropped back into her cold reverie. I grabbed the first book in my pile and read to her. First some Blake, then some Maturin, a little Dickens, and finally some Dickinson, and the words flowed swiftly, unhesitatingly, as tense minute after minute passed.
Heart in my stomach, sweat on my brow, I finished the last book and was about to run back to the shelves for more. I was halfway out the door when Muse got up.
“If this ever happens again, I’m going to have to ask you to lay off the Maturin. Way too creepy,” she said with a tired smile.
“Yeah, I realized as soon as I finished it. I wasn’t thinking too clearly, you know?” I replied, relieved beyond words.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said as she fixed her hair.
“And I’m glad you’re still here. Ice cream for dinner?” I asked.
“Only if it looks like a cheeseburger,” she said, looking for her coat.
Out the door we went into the cool fall evening. As far as I know, the pile of books is still there.