Stones Cry Out

Well, let me tell you I have a great life but you know who I thank for getting me addicted to this blog business and keeping me indoors on the prettiest day this spring? Andrew Sullivan. Glenn Reynolds. Hugh Hewitt. Thanks, guys. When it's June and I'm pasty white with no tan and I'm desperately out of shape, I'll read a copy of Blog and drink a skinny hazelnut double espresso - to keep me blogging furiously into the wee small hours of the morning - in your collective honor.

There's a copy of Key Largo sitting on my entertainment center. I'm dying to get into it, but I've got exams and graduate school applications. I'll have to wait. Studies call. This is what we refer to as maturity. It wasn't so mature yesterday when I caroused around Tuscaloosa looking for eggs, orange juice and maple syrup. We wanted pancakes. We had pancakes. The pancakes were good. Just one caveat. We ate the pancakes at two-thirty in the afternoon. When I was leaving the supermarket with my maple syrup and orange juice, having already procured the eggs from the health food store, I saw Chick-Fil-A across the street. I was starving. I wanted a biscuit. I knew it would not spoil by appetite for pancakes but then it dawned on me that it was after one p.m. No more breakfast. There were families in the drive-thru ordered kids meals and fries as they made their way home from the mall. They were leaving the mall. I had yet to shower and these families were done shopping. What nerve they had, being responsible and waking up before noon. I couldn't believe it.

Ah well. I had my pancakes and they were most excellent. The Braves have won two in a row, the sun is shining in Dixie and I can still blast Interpol from the car and get a curious glance from the Jackie O sunglasses in the next car over at the red light.

Life is good.