Saturday nights are going to be the wildcard night, I suppose. Some weeks, we'll go long, other weeks - like last weekend, with long days at the hospital and only time enough for paying labor when I returned home in the late evening - are going to be stunningly brief. This one will also only be a placeholder, since we were at Jim's house all evening and only got home about 10 minutes ago - meaning it's almost 2 o'clock.
No worthwhile prose happens at 2 AM, you know. Even the great books that are already written, bound, reviewed, shelved and collecting dust find their pages emptied out and replaced with recipes for Jell-o Loaf and Japanese VCR clock-setting instructions. Moby Dick is replaced with the lyrics from the Zepplin tune (with author attribution going from Melville to "John Bonham! John HENRY Bonham!"), and the entire works of Shakespeare devolve to drunken, half-remembered limericks about women from Nantucket, and other places that rhyme with reproductive acts.
Curiously, at 2:17 - and only for about twelve seconds - the entire oeuvres of Tom Clancy and Edward Said switch, except Jack Ryan disappears from both versions and instead gets shunted over to a copy of The Bell Jar. Perhaps most frightening: he likes it there.
D.
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