My folks got through Ike all right (better than most), but don't underestimate the damage done to Houston. There will be people without power for weeks and weeks -- maybe even months. It's going to be mighty hard living for a lot of people for a long time.
I'm still kind of sick about David Foster Wallace's suicide. Isn't it sad and funny that the New York Times headline labelled him "Postmodern Author"? He was actually rather ambivalent about postmodernism . . . whatever that is.
I did not sleep last night, no, not one wink. Partly it was regular old insomnia, and partly it was that a glorious cold front finally, finally arrived. I opened the windows and basked in the crisp, cool air. It is divine. It is invigorating. This has been one of the most miserably hot summers on record, and I have been longing, longing for this weather. I couldn't stand to waste any of it being asleep.
It makes me want to be in love with someone who loves me back.
I left for work this morning at 4:45. In about an hour, I'll head downtown to attend an all-day meeting. I look like holy hell, as you can imagine. I'm worried about this election. I'm worried about Rick's disappearance. I'm broke. I'm exhausted. I'm ridiculously happy to be alive and to know the people I know. I'm very, very fortunate.
Oh, and I forgot -- I hate the Chicago Cubs. That's important today.