The Usual

Observations:

1. So here’s my philosophical conundrum of the day: if religion, per David Wilson’s 2002 book “Darwin’s Cathedral,” is an evolutionary adaptation that allows intra-species groups to compete more effectively for the same resources – akin to pack behavior, in other words – then doesn’t that make inter-religious strife, well, the whole *point* of religion in the first place? A group’s behaviors and beliefs allow that group to not only operate more effectively as a unit, but also spread both its genes and memes in as many directions as possible. So, to wit, is the most violent religion also the most advanced? Is ‘peace, love and understanding’ merely polite window-dressing for a biologically sanctioned ‘kill the infidel’?

2. “You’re not a bad person,” the ever-loveable H. tells me very early this morning. “Yeah, you do stupid things and hurt people, but so the fuck what? Join the club. The fact that you didn’t mean to do those things is what matters. If you were a bad human being, you’d actually go out of your way to hurt people. You need to stop watching three-hour German movies where everyone dies in a bunker at the end.”

3. For this AARP the Magazine freelance piece I had the chance to speak to Mighty Famous Author (MFA). MFA wrote a couple of books about his young life as a junkie, one of which was turned into a big movie about a decade back. He also has a severely overprotective assistant who apparently researched me with the single-minded vigor of a KGB agent on speed, because midway through our interview MFA sprung the fact that he’d read a short story I published in college and a bunch of my nonfiction. “So, when’d you write that?” he asked. “Um, sophomore year of college,” I rattled, seized by total ball-crushing terror. “Yeah, college,” he said, voice loaded with appropriate ‘it sucked, but we’ll humor it because you were obviously younger’ subtext. “College,” I repeated again, with appropriate ‘I’m a better writer now, maybe, hopefully’ subtext.

4. But I finished the freelance piece. My hour-and-a-half interview with him ended up boiled down to about 100 words worth of quote.

5. M. was my editor for that. Our relationship is totally Janus: the ‘friends’ half of it consists yakking companionably about books or whatever while co-writing the occasional screenplay; the ‘writer/editor’ half consists of her whaling on me with revision questions, muttering ‘I’m sorry’ all the while, while I cheerfully grumble after more sources.

6. Writing a nonfiction book at this point would be total overload. But I find myself plot-plot-plotting anyway. I still haven’t heard from J. about ushering me into the Promised Land of Representation.

7. My arch has healed.

Tofu!

So, back in the proverbial day I used to cook stir-fry a good deal; this was in college, and my weekly food budget was something on the order of $15-20, which meant a lot of peppers and tofu. What eventually ended up percolating in my increasingly non-non-stick pan was stir-fry in the same way that two hundred pounds of undifferentiated carbon is a walking, talking human being: kinda ballpark, but kinda not. Kinda edible. Maybe. Maybe not. D. would scarf it down when he came back from his strange midnight runs in the driving snow; E. would make polite noises and keep smiling as she ate; I shoveled it down telling myself that it was protein, damnit, of which I needed all I could get at the time.

Fast-forward through time and space to tonight. I have a new wok (cheap, Ikea, nonstick, wide and deep) and an array of peanut sauces, pad thai noodles, chopped extra-firm tofu, etc. etc. I follow the recipe found on the back of the noodle box, humming and bopping along with the Stones' 'Brown Sugar.' And lo and behold, after much fire and steam, I not only have a meal that's edible, it's...kinda good.

My cooking skills officially evolve beyond pasta, sushi, and grilled-cheese sandwiches.

Work is insane. Not sure if I need a fixer for Kuwait. Not sure until Friday if I'm making it to Kuwait at all. Not sure if my pitches over the last two days to Slate, Salon, AARP and DC Style will be picked up. Hoping J.'s new baby hasn't vomited on my novel manuscript. Even so, I'm enjoying the tumult of work; it's either that or take up kickboxing again and goad Type-As to punch me in the face over and over again until we work out our respective l'il demons.

Observations:

1. 'The Wire' is the best television show ever.

2. 'Serenity' is not half as great after you've seen 'Firefly.'

3. 'She Wants Revenge' is worth listening to over and over again.

4. Justin Timberlake's new single is an instrument of torture that should be banned under the Geneva convention, and is doubtlessly already utilized at 300 decibels in CIA Black Sites all over the world, forcing dozens of jihadis to scream, "Yes! Infidel! Yes, I tell you the location of the bomb! Please do not play 'SexyBack' again, for the love of all that is holy!"

5. Running 7.3 miles with strained left arch = not greatest idea.

6. I would have made the greatest Roman general of all time. I base this assertion on taking three ancient warfare classes at UofC, reading exactly five books on the subject since, and playing a couple dozen hours of 'Command & Conquer: Generals,' so in reality I'd probably have been up on a cross before day's end. But based on how the generals/Senators act in the HBO series 'Rome,' well, let me put it this way: Cesear could have taken them if he was a half-blind retard with palsy. Seriously. That show makes them look like a bunch of pansies.

7. I am no longer seized by one of my periodic death-wishes.

8. 'Lolita' remains, in my humble opinion, the best novel of the 20th century.

9. 'Everything is Illuminated,' on the other hand, is an unmitigated, stinking piece of pretentious shit.

10. I have to start hitting the biking trails by 8 at the latest on weekends. By 9/9:30 they begin to clog with every single screaming child, slowed-to-a-crawl bicyclist, baby stroller, Fat Person Collective, oblivious (thanks to their iPod) Desperate Housewife, geriatric jogger, loud family walking four abreast on a two-lane trail, spandexed moron and Nike-wearing mental dwarf on the Eastern Seaboard. This does not mesh with my desire to bike 30 miles at a healthy fraction of light speed (also known as 15 mph) while softly singing the Smashing Pumpkins' 'Everlasting Gaze' to keep my breathing regulated. I will run you over with extreme prejudice. I don't care about your 401(k) or what school junior's thinking about or how you're putting one over on your spouse with the door greeter at Wal-Mart or how standing in the middle of the trail relieves the stress of your nothing job at Evil Empire Consulting. When you don't heed my increasingly loud call of 'On your left,' well, that's the moment your life becomes forfeit. Seriously. Go ahead and stand there. Your stupidity and my front tire will help keep the gene pool nice and sparkling clean. But I'm nice. I even veered my 24-speed titanium-frame hybrid into the bushes yesterday because you had parked your bike *across* the trail in order to fish your cell phone from your yellow Lance jersey. Actually, let me amend that penultimate sentence: I'm nice for now. Next time I stir-fry your children. [rant complete]