Friday, October 27, 2006
(12:25 AM) | Anonymous:
Friday Morning Confessional: "Seat With No Heat" Edition
I confess to having fallen behind on so many things that it must look as if I am procrastinating on writing some of them. I'm not, as a matter of fact, but it's still humiliating. I confess that writing this confession makes me feel guilty, when there is real work to do. I confess that I actually have been procrastinating about going to the post office to mail some packages. This is not an effect of weariness of being, in some respects, a lazy mofo.I confess that, while watching The Daily Show, there is part of me that always wonders if I will ever land in the Seat of Heat.
I confess that research for my current project has had the unexpected effect of making me the world's leading authority on Maynard Shipley, a self-educated shoe salesman who became an editor and lecturer for the Socialist Party one hundred years ago, travelling around the country delivering speeches on evolution with titles like "From Electrons to Man." So chances are that no invitation to plug my book on The Daily Show will come to pass. I confess that this realization depresses me.
I confess that there is not much competition for world-authority status regarding Maynard Shipley.
I confess that I am too close to my subject. Recently I looked at the papers of his widow, and saw how much in love they were, and also how hard the remaining four decades of her life proved. A serious historian could probably maintain professional disinterest while reading the documents. I confess that I nearly wept on them.
I confess that I am fascinated by the implied psychology of spam. Evidently there are people who, upon reading the subject line, "Significant message You must require to read" then think, "Man, I better open this one right away!"
Admittedly that's not so intriguing, because stupidity, as such, is not mysterious. But much of the rest of it is really puzzling. Okay, yes, granted that deep personal insecurity drives half of all discretionary expenditures. But are there really guys out there who get an email message headed "Your wife prefers your dogs peannis" and find themselves compelled to purchase herbal Viagra?
I confess that the rise of English as a world language doesn't bother me as much as it does some people. But it does not thrill me, either, under the circumstances.
