I have been trying to entertain myself by writing fake headlines in the style of The Onion about things that have happened to me recently. A few examples:

*Local Wendy's Officially Does Not Give A Shit
*Woman Shouting Obscenities Demonstrates Little Knowledge of Grammar Basics
*Potholes Inconvenient
*Religious Devotion Cut Back to Short Reading on Train, Creeping Out Other Commuters
*Itunes Store Recommends Yet Another Shitty Album Just For You

Don't worry, I don't plan to make a career of this. This weekend left me feeling like a real misanthrope, as the above headlines suggest. Sometimes, I'd really like to hole up in my house and not deal with anyone. Sadly, my house does not feature things that I like to have on a regular basis, like cheap magazines, chai lattes, and an almost endless supply of pens (except dead ones).

An informal poll of customers, students, and friends has revealed an unintended effect of the Writers' Strike: lots of downloaded entertainment. That's a kicker, considering that they were working so hard for residuals from digital media. The itunes store must be making out like a bandit, since downloading tv shows is so much more appealing now than what is currently being broadcast. I recently downloaded the first season of Weeds, a show that my friend Willie recently hooked me on. He and I watched about half of the current season on demand, so I decided to start at the beginning. I'd hoped that the first season might shed some light on how Nancy started dealing, but that was not the case. Still quite enjoyable.

After declaring my intent not to bring home any more yarn or start any new projects, a couple of boxes arrived at work from Fleece Artist and Handmaiden in Canada. This is the equivalent of sending an envelope full of cocaine to someone in rehab. I'd like to think that I purchased wisely: a sweater kit, in the same colors as the Yarn Harlot's sweater (not that I stalking her or her sweater. We just like the same colors.), and beautiful, beautiful sock yarn. Meg came to check out the new wares and encouraged me to untwist the skeins to see all of the color variations. She's smart, that Meg.

My issues of the New Yorker seem to be going astray. When I emailed them about this, I received no response. As sure as I go out and buy a copy of the Anniversary Issue, one will arrive in the mail. If I do not, it won't, and I will have to read it at the library. I like to savor reading the magazine, so the library is a less than ideal setting for me to read it. When I was in college, I would lie in bed reading it from cover to cover the afternoon that it arrived. Even the gallery listings. I'm not sure how I had the attention span and the time to do this, but I was focussed!

It was my intent to start on the sweater kit tonight after work (or read the New Yorker, ha), but I conveniently left the pattern on the counter at the store. Saved from an attack of startitis. Instead, I am soaking my foot and reading an excellent autobiography of Julia Child. She was quite a character.

Next post--a round up of recent reads.