Monday Morning No New Shark Attacks Blues

"Portland Oregon and a sloe gin fizz
If that ain't love, don't tell me what is
Un-huh!"

— Loretta Lynn
Portland Oregon

I'm sitting here watching my hero and idol, Ann Curry, interview the husband of some rich-ass chubby model who has "valiantly overcome" clinical depression to become a "better man." And yes, I am taking notes! Ann is a genius at adopting that smarmy false sympathy of the distant aunt at a Southern funeral, the one who traveled across the country just to hear the gory details: "Oh, I pray to Dear Blessed Jesus that she didn't suffer...did she? Was ther pain? A lot of pain? Where? Did she moan in pain there at the end? OHHHHHH My lord...tell me all of it!"

It's either Annie-Poo or that poor woman in Florida, with apparently half the country arguing about whether or not to pull her feeding tube. I fully expect one or the other parties to set up a website so ALL AMERICA CAN VOTE! Shockingly, I have no opinion. If it was me, I don't think that's how I'd like to pass 15 years. On the other hand, I've stood over the beds of people I loved, hooked up to the machines under those florscent lights, willing every single twitch of the eyebrow and flutter of breath to be a sign of impending miracle.

I could get up and do something, but I'm still shifting gears from coming off the road. It's always like beaming in from an alternative universe, the one with room service. It takes about a day for my head to stop moving and get the office flywheel in my head spinning. So far I've cleaned my aquarium and soldered some connections on the robot I'm haphazardly building. I whipped through the Internet, but nothihng really caught my attention.

It's spring, and we're all waiting for the next new shark attack!