When I woke up that morning and checked my personal e-mail, I was thrilled at first. My inbox was overflowing. Then I noticed that almost all the messages were from that reliable bearer of bad news—MAILER-DAEMON—and the cheerful subject was "Failure Notice."
Uh-oh, I thought. I hadn't sent many messages the day before. I opened one of MAILER-DAEMON's notes. It concerned a message sent from my account that fortunately hadn't gotten through to all: "Only for you hot proposal right now! Be quick!" With, of course, a link to click. This had gone to most of my contacts whose e-mails begin with the letter "J."
This is a truly bizarre subculture. The official guide to the games begins: "WARNING! The following dances are designed solely for performance while in the grip of "Oh-my-gosh-I-just-won-the-Lottery" euphoria. Do not attempt otherwise." The instructions for each game are then given in the form of an Arthur Murray-type graphic. Odds are given below in a chart that I suspect makes people's eyes glaze over rather than absorb the fact that, e.g., the chances of winning the 200,000,000 Million Cash Spectacular instant game are 1 in 3.46 million. The site doesn't say "If you win"—it's "When you win." So I confess I wince inwardly when I see someone, to all appearances impoverished, avidly forking over the cash.
I told him I don’t know how to tweet. And he told me, “No problem! I’ll type it as you say it.”
So what the hell, why not meet at Father & Son in Logan Square. Spend the first half eating the garlic chicken. Dang, that shit is good.
I just got off the phone with someone who said "Sounds awesome" after I'd left an amazing message for someone else—my name and phone number. "Sounds good" once was good enough. Similarly, "Thank you" has been ousted by "Thank you so much."
We fear that people will doubt our sincerity unless we're really, really sincere. Why this insecurity? It's an important question, one I hope Obama and Romney get to between Iran and the economy. We're suffering from word inflation, maybe even a word bubble. Can't this kind of bubble burst? I'd be so so grateful.
During a recent TV interview, speaking about this year's Gay Pride Parade, I used an analogy that is inflammatory.
I am personally distressed that what I said has been taken to mean that I believe all gays and lesbians are like members of the Klan. I do not believe that; it is obviously not true. Many people have friends and family members who are gay or lesbian, as have I. We love them; they are part of our lives, part of who we are. I am deeply sorry for the hurt that my remarks have brought to the hearts of gays and lesbians and their families.
I can only say that my remarks were motivated by fear for the Church's liberty. This is a larger topic that cannot be explored in this expression of personal sorrow and sympathy for those who were wounded by what I said.
Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession. During that week, I swore at my brother three times and punched him twice. I am personally distressed that he took this negatively.
I must confess I continued chain smoking throughout her visit, shepherding her to Wrigley Field, paying $50 bucks for parking, leaving her with a vendor for safekeeping, etc, etc. "Oh, Kathleen, just stop it," she'd say of my puffing. But that took me a while.
Here in the so-called temperate zone, most conventional plans for self-improvement are subverted as soon as the sun goes south for the winter. It's plain foolish to tell yourself you're going to stop overeating at precisely the moment in the year when your body is crying out for a nice, warm, protective layer of fat. Or to promise to start exercising just when the trip to the gym is fraught with ice-glazed danger. Did you decide to learn a new skill or improve your mind? Good luck doing it on one of those short, gray, frigid days that cry out for a long nap. And if your goal is to be more cheerful, well, you can try that while digging out your car. Under the circumstances, the only truly doable commitments are to watch more TV, sit by more fireplaces, buy more blankets, and make more plane reservations.
But now I'm thinking of converting to Rahm Emanuelism. The perks sound great, at least the reincarnation bit.
According to irreputable sources, the mayor informed his closest advisers of the resolution during a New Year's Eve conference call from Buenos Aires, where he was vacationing with his family. "No more cussing for me, and I am not fudging kidding," Emanuel said.