Some Stuff in the Basement

Hi.

I’m on a plane right now, flying to Seattle on business. I’m scheduled to land in about two hours. Can you believe this shit? I have business in Seattle. Meetings. Negotiations. Strategy sessions. Conferences. Shit like that. Fucking bizarre how the world works.

As I’ve said 8,342 times previously in this space, I want to write again. It’s good for me. If I can write some entertaining shit, maybe it’ll be good for you, too. You can sit in your cube, fire up your workstation, and laugh at my delusional bullshit again like you used to. We’ll see.

I’m going to force myself to do this every day for a month. Even on weekends. If I make myself write for pleasure—as opposed to the technical shit I do for work—for thirty days, maybe it’ll become a habit. That’s what I’m hoping. I’m better at writing than I used to be, at least from a technical standpoint. I’m worse when it comes to discipline. I’ll work on that.

Other than that, I’m sitting in a window seat in coach. The middle seat is empty. There’s a Hasidic guy sleeping in the aisle seat. He keeps putting on and taking off his hat, even though he’s sleeping every time I look over. I can’t tell whether there’s a pattern to this. An angry looking woman just stared me down while she was screwing around with the overhead bin. It took me a disproportionately long time to pay for a bottle of water on the way to my gate, because the cashier was very slow. I don’t know why things like this happen.

The captain sounds like a radio DJ. That sort of thing inspires confidence. I hope he knows what he’s doing. I also need a haircut. Does anyone know whether they have a barber shop in the American Airlines terminal at Sea-Tac? Also, I find it odd when President Obama refers to terrorists as “folks.”

That’s all for now. I’ll see you all later.