Because if it weren’t for my pesky commitment to the Greater Good, I would so be ordering up one of these. But, alas, monies spent on that would be lining the pockets of most odious Neandertal fucktards, and anyway they misspelled “intercourse”.

“It takes a rainstorm to find a hole in your shoe.”

(Guess how I came up with this one. C’mon, just guess.)

Ever wonder what the top one thousand books held by American libraries might be? Wonder no more! Dr. MacColl forwarded the above link to our departmental mailing list this afternoon, and I’m plenty glad for it. But…Garfield at number 18?

One of the queries on the Reference assignment due tomorrow is, “How does one address the Pope in conversation?”

Come on, everyone knows when you’re talking to the Pope you call him “Karl” before 8PM and “Yo Karlie!” afterward.

Mom gave me a great breakfast of ham, waffles, and Seinfeld chat this morning, after which I tooled over here to Donnie’s and then on to lunch with Enzie and my girlfriend, Little Miss Emma. After an all too short period of pizza and flying lessons, we stopped briefly at the Starbucks stand in the Jones Valley Barnes & Noble then returned here for a visit, again all too brief, with Fifi. Learned that Fifi is in the middle of filming her first documentay–hurrah!–and that life sometimes imitates farce. Ran a quick errand for Donnie, now I’m back and checking in before our (all too brief) return to Enzie’s.

Then, at last, I go home. Mmm, home.

What’s cool is when your mother is looking for the CD of Christmas songs you burned for her a couple of years ago, and when she finds it she tells you the song she’s been really and truly looking forward to hearing again, a song which you and you alone introduced her to, is “Fairytale of New York”.

Moms are cool.

Actually, more like “couch the first, sleeping location the second” or some such.

Spent the night here at Donny’s, back in glorious Technicolor Huntsville, where there’s always a hint of lilac in the air and the soft sound of a mighty Wurlitzer off in the distance.

OK, I romanticize. I romanticize muchly, but that’s what comes of living in Tuscaloosa. As much as I’m enjoying the program and loving my classmates, Tuscaloosa, as a residence, sucks.

Came here direct from Thanksgiving dinner at my aunt’s yesterday evening, and it was a wonderful experience, being able to drive the whole way on nice wide high-speed highways. Had a great time hanging out with Donny, whom I introduced to the pie-ful wonder of Weebl and Bob. We went out for a late meal, shared the rest of the wonderful chocolate-and-goo pie I brought back from my aunt’s, stayed up until the wee hours talking, and finally I crashed on his terribly comfy couch.

Now, on to my mom’s, where there will be steaks and baked potatoes and a tour of her new house, currently near the end of construction.

Named, we were taught as children, for the amazing prevalence of mussels alon the shoals of the local river. Spelling, as you can see, was still at the Ankh-Morpork stage in those times.

Here at my father’s for Thanksgiving festivities. Yay festivities! They’re so…festive. Erm.

It was a 2.5 hour drive here from Tuscaloosa last night, which wouldn’t have been particularly bad if every single freakin’ mile hadn’t been on twisty, turny state and county roads. I’d been spoiled, see, by my years in Huntsville, from which all the major connecting thoroughfares are nice, wide, access-controlled Interstate highways. The surfaces I traversed last night, while in remarkably good repair, were claustrophobically narrow, too curvy for comfort, and just generally icky. Fortunately my journey back is from Huntsville, so I have a nice long stretch of civilized Interstate to look forward to.

My old stomping ground and Thanksgiving destination, Florence, AL, is ranked fourth safest metropolitan area in the country. Nifty.

(Why yes, there is work I should be doing. Why do you ask?)

Having a couple of free weeks coming up during the semester break, I’d been thinking it might be fun to try cranking out the rough draft of a novel. Just, you know, to see if I could.

Major problem, of course, was that I had no idea what I might write about. Then, while out for a walk last night, a phrase most beautiful shimmered into being behind my eyes: Mad Library Scientist.

With those three words in mind, details started snapping and popping like puffed rice in milk: The work itself would be the pulpiest of fiction, set in an American-slipstream sort of world in which the first third of the 20th century was, oh, a lot more fun. You know, the kind of world filled with lots of airships drifting around full of cynical reporters cracking wise with brassy dames.

The plot would be a pot-boiling barn-burner featuring a Doc Savage type, only he’d be a librarian, natch. The villain of the piece, the Mad Library Scientist, would be a techno-baddie calling himself the Collocationist, a fellow hell-bent on bringing Absolute Order to their messy little world. He would be assisted in his nefarious schemes by three costumed midgets, Cutter, Dewey, and Panizzi.

Rounding things out would be a cast of colorful supporting characters, including but not limited to a gum-snapping towhead sidekick, a foppish homosexual billionaire assassin, a gang of leather dykes on motorcycles, at least one ancient Egyptian wizard, a corrupt but likeable police commissioner, and a sharp-edged sassy blonde love interest.

Need I even mention the requisite acid pits, rigged biplanes, poisoned champagne flutes, and Imploding Gothic Towers? There’s gotta be some sort of backdrop against which all this derring is done, after all.

Oh, and robots, of course. Radio robots, even.

I’m giddy just thinking about it! I hope inspiration can overcome my natural entropy over the holidays.