When people ask me if I'm bored, as they do from time to time in the course of everyday conversation, I usually tell them that I don't get bored. It's true. Despite the John Berryman poem I may have posted a couple days ago, I usually find something to read, do, think about, and when I can't, I go to sleep.

I can't deal with waiting, however. For various reasons I'm looking forward to going to Norfolk over Thanksgiving, and I leave for New York on December 15th, so my schedule will be pretty full. But everything I do between now and then will be a total waste of time. Sorry, but all that Hallmark card crap about living-in-the-moment? Never been big on that.

So I spent last night patiently programming my cellular phone by hand to sing the opening flute part from Rite of Spring. (Since my phone doesn't have a legato setting it sounds like something Dr. Dre would approve of.) After I was done with that I was going to start in on e lucevan le stelle from Tosca, but (thankfully) passed out before I reached such depths of pretension, irony, and... OK, boredom.

My cousin's 20-year-old daughter made me a copy of the Franz Ferdinand album before I came to work this morning. Young people these days put out some pretty fucking decent rock and roll.