It is autumn, although I have seen no ravens from the north. And I certainly didn't see any caribou tonight, although I did see a whole lot of football players running up and down a soggy field. So, it was sort of like watching the fall migration of caribou. Don't ask me if the home team won. My daughter plays in the pep band, and we always leave after she plays during half-time.
Speaking of autumn, the annual fall illness has descended upon my household. My daughter was out of school for two days this week, and she's still taking antibiotics. My wife just crawled into bed with a box of Kleenex. Me? I'm attempting, for the second time, to watch The Wonder Boys with my daughter. (For details on my first attempt, refer to last night's second post.)
It's Friday night, if you haven't guessed by the whole football thing. After nine o'clock, and I still have papers to grade and poems to write. Hopefully, tomorrow I will be able to get some major work accomplished. That's my goal, anyway. Of course, as the saying goes, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.
I always have a lot of good intentions at the beginning of a weekend. Tonight is like an apple, high on a branch, just waiting to be plucked. I love Friday nights. The potential of them. The whole weekend stretching out before me. It's one of my favorite times of the week.
Of course, come Sunday, I will have accomplished only half (if I'm lucky) of what I intended to do, and I will be feeling like a failure.
Tonight, however, Saint Marty is an unlit candle. An uneaten Milky Way. A pepperoni pizza waiting to be delivered.
|Just because I love Bigfoot|