Failure of the Day: Head = Explode

Such a week I’ve had. On day 11 of my 12, count ‘em TWELVE working days in a row to get the documentation ready for a big “Larry event” at City Hall last week (yeah but no pressure or anything. If the richest guy in the world finds a typo I’m fired, but whatever), my department underwent some “restructuring” (Worst. Word. Ever.) and my position got somewhat altered. It’s looking like it will shake out to be a net plus for me, but for one 24-hour period, during which the definition of the new proofing department was somewhat nebulous, I had some of the...let’s call them “jitters.” Took Friday off though and am feeling much better now.
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I’ve always been a little insecure about my dreadful lack of knowledge (or, let’s face it, interest) in the classics of the Western canon. You would be appalled to know how many of those big towering literary figures I’ve never read. Hemmingway, Austen, Proust—not a word. Japanese fiction, sure, and contemporary authors of course, I’ve read a ton of those, but I’m not sure I’m ever going to fill that big ole hole in my literary knowledge. But then a lovely UK press called Canongate started putting out retellings of myths as novellas by contemporary writers. I’ve already read Weight, Jeanette Winterson’s version of the Atlas and Heracles story, and I’m working my way through The Penelopiad: The Myth of Penelope and Odysseus by Margaret Atwood, told from the point of view of the 12 hanged maids. Both books are just incredible... beautifully written and completely fascinating. The publisher promises many more to come. A godsend for us literary types and our various blindspots...
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I’ve said it before, but I’m saying it again: Battlestar motherfucking Galactica, people. I’m torn here because I know some of you don’t have cable and are watching only after the DVDs come out and I don’t want to ruin how great this is with a spoiler, but hybrid cylon blood cures cancer. OK? Cylon motherfucking blood cures cancer. Can you beat that? You can’t. You can’t beat that. Ka-blooey goes my head.
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The Seahawks! The Uberbowl! No one who reads this blog cares (OK, one person does) but we former Seattleites are beside ourselves. It's easier to enjoy 700 miles away from the beered up lugheads smearing green facepaint onto the jackets of passersby, of course, but enjoy it we do! Man! That was some kinda weekend!