Arrived to the laundry room five minutes before my clothes were done and rather than return to the apartment I read the instructions for working the washer and dryer, looking for typos. When I didn’t find any I thought with pity of the poor soul whose job it is to proofread such instructions.
In my calendar year, Black Friday and Cyber Monday occupy identical positions of non-importance.
We were driving home last night when “Like a Rolling Stone” came on the radio.
“Who is this?” Hania asked.
“It’s Bob…” I stopped myself. “It’s Nobel laureate Bob Dylan,” I said.
“I can’t say I’m taken by him.”
“It’s like baseball,” I explained. “You have to have grown up with it.”
When I go to Google I find a handful of articles that the algorithm thinks I'll find interesting. This week it was spot on as it included the one I wrote about the end of The Best American Travel Writing.
Like many people, I suppose, I sometimes fantasize about people from the past being resurrected and plopped down into contemporary life. Driving 70 on I-95 while listening to the Brandenburg Concertos I’ll imagine Bach sitting in the passenger seat, with a look of terrified delight. Yesterday, eating dinner at Brasserie Central in Merrick Park, I wished that Darwin could have been at the table to see his name tattooed on our busboy’s forearm.
At the Day of the Dead observance on Tuesday I ran into a former colleague from the Sun-Sentinel. I asked what he was doing now, and he said "freelancing" (he's a photographer); I told him I was doing the same.
"Our work is part of who we are," he said. "I took a real job - sitting at a desk. That lasted four days."