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Tuesday, June 19, 2001

I tried to come up with something profound to write about tonight — missile defense, flood relief, energy shortages, Cal Ripken's retirement — but the events of the day intervened. Unfortunately, nothing quite as riveting as an all points bulletin or a blackout alert crossed my desk today. It was one of those days when opening the mail (all bills) was a nice break from filling out bid forms and credit applications.

If I went through my day hour by hour, you could see why my mind is total mush tonight. But what would be the point? I can't even write about anything from my list of topics, because I can't wrap my brain around any subject tightly enough to do it justice. Sometimes I can work a twelve-hour day like this and bounce back with something jaunty to fill this space, but tonight I just don't have it.

It seems to me that if I really loved my job, I wouldn't talk about it this way. I think I like my job okay, mostly, but by four o'clock in the afternoon I'm ready to do something else and forget about "work." It doesn't always work out that way, obviously.

I even had to bail on my morning visit with Mom today, because I couldn't take the time. When she called this afternoon I kept her on the phone as long as I could, because I knew that was the only way to be keep the Boss from calling again. (Naturally, the phone rang as soon as I hung up.)

And I didn't get out into the yard this afternoon. It's been two days of fairly searing heat since the last time I watered. I might have to do it during the work day tomorrow. But I have been putting in time over the last week pulling up the stuff growing between the paving stones on the walkway.

I've been working on this

It's tedious work, because I have to make sure I don't leave any plant materials behind. I just know they'll take root, and I'll be right back where I started. It takes so much time to do so little that it's not as satisfying as pulling up big hunks of high weeds and filling the yard waste container. This might be the first time in about three months that I haven't filled the container enough to take it out to the curb Thursday night.

After reading David Ansen's review of A.I. in the Newsweek that came in today's mail, I want to see it more than ever. It's not a totally admiring review, but the problems Ansen has with it only make it more intriguing (to him as well as me). I admire Kubrick, but I love Spielberg, and to see a movie which is in part a tribute from one to the other is an exciting prospect.

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