After a summer spent perfecting my impression of a giant land salmon, and pondering the significance of truth, beauty and wisdom out by the pool, I sit here now like Muammar Gaddafi, the once brotherly leader and guide of the revolution of Libya, the wearer of dark sunglasses and funny hats, a tent dweller and golden handgun carrier. I sit here sadder than a baby-less visitor to a Baby Gap, like a ghost in a Haruki Murakami story. I sit here in my man loft, listening to Japanese music from the 60s (Sukiyaki), drinking Oolong tea and thinking about taking a short but much needed nap.
There is no such thing as a bad nap after all, is there?
I get my taxes done, just in time to file tomorrow. I conveniently forgot about the 30K from the lawsuit against my former company. I asked my accountant in a philosophical way if I would, in theory, have to pay income tax on a class action suit. He said no, not in theory.
And so not in practice, then.
I’ll get a refund.
The truth is pointless.
The game was over before I got my cleats on.
I’m fundamentally a spectator in my own movie.
Tanks were invented during WW1 but nobody knew what to do with them, not until the Germans figured it out with Blitzkrieg. The German military was broken up at the end of WW1. They were starting with a blank slate. How about that?
I join the missus watching ‘You’ve got Mail’, (When Tom met Sally). I’m struck by how creepy the movie could have been with different actors and as a thriller instead of a romcom. Tom Hank’s character — Joe Fox is evil and rich with a misogynist father (Dabney Coleman, he plays it so well, and often). Tom’s a stalker and kind of smarmy. Let’s say you replace Tom Hanks with Kevin Spacey, hey, where are you then?