Dog day

Me and Justin found a studio finally--in Astoria--so we don't have to stick out in the very Hispanic/Ecuadorian Corona Park, and pretend we speak Spanish. The Times had an article about how Brooklynites and Queens people are cheating on their boroughs to snatch cheap sublets in Manhattan. All I can say, is that, I'm glad I'm not living in Manhattan this summer. Manhattan is over-the-top, over-priced, over-populated, and pretentious. I would rather walk through ethnic ghettos than hordes of tourists. These weeks have been a mad flurry of papers, househunting, Craigslisting, 250-mile drives. This week, I might possibly have to drive into Baltimore to drive Justin's stuff around from Maryland into New York. I finally drove into the driveway at 3am, sufficiently vented my anger on the terrified Justin, revved myself up to finished up a mathematical analysis of the Electoral College, and then slept at 7am. I ate a ton of Indian food, and went to the university press for work. Then I lay on my lawn in a wooly sweater, collecting pollen and grass, like a mat. I am delirious, dehydrated, sleepy, and shedding grass. Jonathan, my boss, got me a going-away-for-the-summer-present: The Tao of Pooh, wrapped up in a dust jacket for Christopher Douglas' "a genealogy of literary multiculturalism," which I helped to publicize.

"When you wake up in the morning, Pooh," said Piglet at last, "what's the first thing you say to yourself?"
"What's for breakfast?" said Pooh. "What do you say, Piglet?"
"I say, I wonder what's going to happen exciting today?" said Piglet.
Pooh nodded thoughtfully.
"It's the same thing," he said.