Despite the best efforts of the California sun (which is a different sun than the rest of you have), it's sweater weather at last. You ought to ask yourself if you've been keeping up with the fabulous archival clothing blog. Its operator manages to keep us informed about 50-60 year-old waxed cottons and wools while holding down a full-time managerial post at a major state university. Impressive. My own aspirations are more modest: I celebrate sweaters and sweater weather when it arrives. I've still got a date with my hot wife and a bunch of thrift stores one of these days to stock up on cool poly-cotton blend shirts and hopefully a couple of sweaters. There is yet hope that I'll find a really bitchin' argyle sweater this season to supplement the nouveau argyle sweater Becky picked up for me last year.In other news, you've been a good kid and you owe it to yourself to watch the latest Strongbad e-mail. HI-larious, people.
It's funny. I'm not really a lot more screwed than I was while pursuing my M.A. at Oregon. But somehow I feel more screwed. This is the mystery with which I grapple at the moment.
1 comment:
I think it's like the inability to have a real memory of pain, so that every pain you're experiencing in the moment is the worst pain. Being screwed now is a lot worse than being screwed at some undifferentiated point in the past.
Which, for a historian, is kind of an ironic thing to say. I'm going to quit and go to journalism school now. Nah -- they'd never let me get away with my paragraph-long sentences.
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