True fact: George H. W. Bush is my favorite Republican president of my lifetime. Which, I admit, isn’t saying a whole lot, but unlike Ford, Reagan, and Bush II I at least feel like the evil old nut-cutting CIA sumbitch had a little bit of a soul. (Well, OK, I’ve got nothing against Ford. But he was only president for a couple of months of my life anyway so I can safely disregard him.) “George H. W. Bush is witness at gay wedding” means precisely nothing meaningful to anybody who wasn’t at the wedding. It doesn’t really signal any change in the zeitgeist that wasn’t already happening no matter how much I want it to– Republicans have always been for rights for their people, and some of them– like, say, Satan— are pro gay marriage because there are acknowledged gay people in their family. This has been true for a while.
I really only posted the picture because I want someone to explain the socks. There is no way the former President of the United States leaves the house in mismatched socks unless he wants to, and I want to know why. Someone tell me.
Long intro to a very short anecdote, but I think it’s funny anyway: I had to put the boy in his high chair earlier, and decided before I did so that I would lift him way above my head. He loves this, like all little kids do. I’m never doing it again, because this time he chose to take advantage of his added height by kicking me in the chest with both feet. For which he was nearly dropped on his head. Which would somehow have been my fault. I think I have bruises.
Pointless griping time– As anyone who knows me IRL is already aware, I started a stupid little project on January 1 where I decided to keep track of all the books I read for a year. I’m using Facebook to track everything– in fact, book posts are the only thing that I let stick around on Facebook for more than a couple of days. I’m also keeping track in a spreadsheet, which you would think would make Facebook irrelevant but it’s not.
You knew I was a data nerd, right? So of course I have numbers. I have, as of right now, September 26th, reading my 145th book of the year. That’s not a typo. 145 books, at an average of 336 pages each. Sometime in the next few weeks I’ll cross 50,000 pages on the year; I read approximately 175 pages a day. This does not count comic books (at least four or five a week, sometimes more) or anything online, although it’s included a handful of ebooks. That’s every day.
I’m not bragging. I suspect this may qualify as mental illness.
At some point, it became clear that it was within the realm of possibility for me to read 200 books in 2013. I am, right now, five books off that pace– I’d need to have read 150 by the end of September; there are four days left to read those five books– which is actually possible if I’m careful about what books I choose, but probably won’t happen.
Here’s the problem: As soon as I realized I could conceivably read 200 books in a year, the list became about reading 200 books in a year, and despite my respectable per-book average, I’m really starting to tilt my reading toward shorter books and rereads that I can get through quickly so that I can get “caught up” to this meaningless goal that only I know about and absolutely no one cares about so that at the end of the year I can brag to no one at all about how I read 200 books a year. This even though I could easily justify telling people I read 175 books a year without fear of contradiction and without altering my reading habits. The median number of books read by Americans? Six. The average is twelve, but that’s inflated by psychotics like myself. Either way, right now I’ve squared the number of books the average American read last year and I still have three months left in 2013. 200 is not more impressive than 175; it’s just rounder.
I have a problem. I have four or five hefty nonfiction books and Gone with the Wind (did you know that book is a thousand goddamn pages long?) on my shelf waiting for me and I’m not reading them because I know I can’t finish them in a day or two. That’s fucked up, and the fact that I want to do something about it but apparently can’t is weird even for me.