Grump.

Nuthin', I got nuthin' here. pace pace pace. Girlfriend's out of town and it's getting cold at night and I can't find the warm blankets and the dogs won't cuddle and I am grumpy from it all. Lemme see here. ND pissed one away against North Carolina on Saturday. Last I checked, the Cubs are still not in the NLCS. And some hacky dude on the other team Friday night went knee-to-knee with me and then, after he fell down, kicked me in the ankles. So I am left bruised and sore and sulky from my usual sporting obsessions.

On the plus side, on re-reading The Razor's Edge for the first time since high school I am pleasantly reminded of why I fell in love with Somerset Maugham way back in the day. The man had an elegant yet easy writing style that makes the words float smoothly and richly off the page and through my brain, painting pictures all the way. It's an old Penguin edition my mom gave me for Christmas, I think, in 1984, all yellowed pages turning brown at the edges and alarmingly brittle, the orange spine washed out to something approximating the old Crayola "flesh" color. It's comforting.

I am simulataneouly reading Cormac McCarthy's All the Pretty Horses, so I have lyrical language going in stereo. Never read McCarthy before, and his writing style--so different from Maugham, but equally evocative--is magical. This one was recommended by Dave; Maugham came courtesy of Brother Phil. Thanks, guys, for both.

Oh, and I heard some chick named Maddow was on Leno last week way after my bedtime. Quelle adorbs!