I have a confession to me: I am miserable at proofreading my work. I always have been. It’s probably not going to stop.
It’s not because I don’t care about what I’ve written. Quite the reverse. Its root cause is laziness. Pure and simple laziness. Who wants to go back and read what they have just written? Since I’m so hard on myself, I’d just end up rewriting what I had already finished writing. Which means I’d accomplish nothing. Garbage would pile up. Laundry would never be washed. Stubble would never be shaved. Teeth will decay; I will stink.
When I do proofread, I don’t always catch errors. Not because I’m infallible (I’m not), or because there aren’t any errors (there are), but because I don’t always see my errors. It’s weird. The second I spot something grammatically obtuse, I’ll cry uncle. Improper semicolon use? A horror. Bad syntax? You may as well cut my eyeballs out and feed them to a dog.
But when it’s my own mistake, I miss it. I don’t know why.
Another confession: seldom do I know the “right” way to end an entry. An open-ended question? Humorous observation? Oh, wait… I know…
A sentence fragment.
You’ve probably heard about these in the news. IEDs — improvised explosive devices — have been responsible for killing many a U.S. soldier in Afghanistan.
On my way home from work yesterday, I listened to a fascinating story on NPR’s All Things Considered: manually exploding the deadly devices one at a time.
It’s worth a read and a listen. And it proves that journalism still exists, in noncommercial form.
I’m not disciplined enough as a writer to concentrate on a specific topic. Thus, what follows are quick thoughts. Most likely there’s no linear connection between anything.
* It’s far too early for snow. But it’s also nice waking up to (until you have to dig out your motor vehicle).
* There’s nothing on television between Friday and Sunday nights
* The media went into a frenzy when the Dow Jones reached 10,000 the other day. Is the recession over? No.
* I would probably never send my son up in the air, in a crudely-designed balloon. Unless money or coffee is being offered.
* My hearing is slowly worsening.
* Jon Meacham is a remarkably good writer.
* Anytime I see a picture of Jon Gosselin, I throw up a little in my mouth.
Nothing profound.
After five flights and 500 miles on the road, our weekend excursion to the midwest is complete. America’s heartland was looking good, despite ill-tempered Mother Nature plaguing us with a miserable and near-constant rain.
While we were away our apartment bathroom was torn apart; our shower door and sink were replaced, leaving us scrambling to put all bathroom and grooming essentials back where they belong.
I always marvel at air travel, man’s greatest achievement. Not a single problem or complaint about the several flights required for a cheap weekend out-of-state retreat. Though US Airways does charge an absurd $20 for check-in luggage, their complimentary beverages and polite crew eased our cruel gaze at the aforementioned check-in luggage receipt.
A nice sojourn, but reality commences tomorrow.
The dog days of summer are ending with a whimper in the northeast. Though not record lows, temperatures have been comfortably mild for a fortnight.
As we waited for our coffee to brew this evening, I caught a glimpse of summer outside, personified by the cries of children playing. There were boys rough-housing, girls chatting, and feckless parents trying to catch their breath.
School is already back in full swing. That’s one sign summer hath ended. Labor Day is another. Leaves slowly begin to change color before falling to the ground below. Frost turns to snow. Flip-flops become galoshes. Hats and scarves begin to disappear off store shelves and onto a chilled people. The days grow shorter. We grow older.
An endless cycle of seasonal bliss: life, indeed, comes full circle. As do the seasons in every calendar year.
The 2009 MTV Video Music Awards will likely best be remembered for Kanye West.
Upon Taylor Swift winning Video Of The Year, West swarmed the stage and and stole her thunder.
A visibly stunned and shaken Swift watched as West, an emotionally bankrupt attention whore, grabbed the microphone and proclaimed Beyonce, not Swift, should have been given that nod.
Kanye West, your arrogance knows no limitation. Your reputation as a jerk has not retarded your growth into a monster. You are a vile waste. Though talented, you lack basic human decency that separates us from animals.
In short, you suck.
Today we revisit America’s worst day. We revisit the pyre in New York. We witness again the World Trade Center in flames. We watch as both towers collapse. We watch people falling to their death — an alternative to burning alive.
We revisit a burning Pentagon in Washington, and a smoky crater in Pennsylvania. We listen to news reports of four hijacked planes.
“America Under Attack”
“Terrorists Hit U.S. Soil”
“War Declared on America”
It happened eight years ago this day. A terrible day. Unyielding in its misery and melancholy. The polar opposite of what the day itself looked like: crystal clear skies, warm. Not a cloud in sight. Picture perfect for late summer. Until the skies opened to airplanes turned in to missiles.
I was sitting in my high school English class that morning. It wasn’t until I went home that afternoon did I truly begin to grasp the unimaginable horror of what had unfolded hours before. What was continuing to unfold. A nightmare. We’re still asleep. The nightmare continues.
Crowds gather at Ground Zero in New York to hear the annual reading of the names. People who perished that day eight years ago. The names never change. They’ll be the same next year. And the year after.
In Washington, memorials at the Pentagon. Lest we forget a lonely Pennsylvania field.
As the years go by, the crowds will dwindle. Life goes on. Except for those who never forget. Those whose lives ended in the ash and rubble. Those who carry on day-to-day, but whose lives will forever be incomplete because their loved one died. Murdered. By terrorists.
Nineteen individual hijackers, united under some hazy, twisted cause. They slipped through a system that didn’t care. Or didn’t pay attention. They lived among us. They watched our media. They enjoyed our culture. Secretly they might even have liked us.
Not that they could have admitted such blasphemy. They had jobs to do; a mission, however misguided, to accomplish.
“Mission accomplished.”
Today isn’t a day for politics. Or shouldn’t be, at least. Rather, it’s a day to mourn. To reflect. To remember.
So long as we never forget, nearly three-thousand people didn’t die in vein.
Edward Kennedy is dead.
The words rattled me as I read them this morning.
Edward Kennedy is dead.
It happened overnight. Brain cancer. He was 77.
The news came with the same anticipated jolt reserved for older relatives whose health is terminal.
Now Kennedy is traveling to the vast nothingness that is infinity — a world unseen to the living.
It will be a while before those four troubling words leave my mind.
Edward Kennedy is dead.
In my desperate attempt to stick the proverbial finger at progress, I bring you a new look to this fine weblog. Which isn’t so much new as it is simple and plain. Vanilla ice cream, in a bowl of apathy sprinkled with indifference..
What’s to come in these next several days? Rhetorical questions are rude, sir. And madam.
I am working on a couple different articles I hope to publish presently.
Until then, go outside.
