Friday Afternoon Confessional: 366 and counting
I confess that I prefer Madonna to Bob Dylan. I confess that I would take every Lady Gaga over any Radiohead. I suggest that a way to approximate the projecting of vomit over an internet connection would be to launch a pop-up playing U2 songs.
I confess to writing this on an iPod on a train using an usurperously priced internet connection. This because I have no other time available to do it in this week and because I am too lazy to get my laptop out.
I am listening to Bill Frisell. At least I have that going for me.
I confess that when I was seeking controversy I barely got clicks and that when I was not seeking it I got 366 (and 61 comments). I confess none of that had anything to do with what I wrote.
I confess,again, that I live in luxury and that I wish all would be able to live therein without ever feeling guilty about it for even the smallest instant. I am happy that The Kids have a cat that sleeps elsewhere and that they tell me is 15 years old which is, they tell me, a good age for a cat to still catch mice in. I confess that I am allergic.
366 and 61 and no answer on what intrigues me and has to do with Anscombe and, afaik, Habermas. Life is a bitch. This being so, not as much of a bitch as using the word bitch in what seems a genuinely meant way.
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I confess that in the past month or so, I’ve become somewhat fixated on low-level health issues. For instance, I’m now addicted to the neti pot, and I have been trying to fix my continual itchy skin with less hot showers and more frequent moisturizer (sometimes recruiting The Girlfriend to put it on my back). I have also been trying to do a lot of other low-level types of things that I would normally put off till “later” — fixing a drippy faucet, cleaning out my wallet, etc., etc. My apparent goal is to move systematically up Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.
I confess that this week, The Girlfriend has had much greater work demands than usual due to a conference her company is putting on. She advised me to pretend she didn’t exist this week, leading me to dub it Bachelor Week. I confess that every morning, I woke up and had it in mind that it was Friday, an apparent “Freudian slip” indicating that I don’t actually want to be a bachelor.
I confess that Why We Love Sociopaths is already out of copyediting — the next step is to make proofs. Things are moving so fast! Then there’s a six-month wait for it to come out, which is apparently determined by the distributors, etc. But hopefully it’ll be out in time for Christmas.
Comment by Adam Kotsko | June 10, 2011
I confess that I’m not sure where to start. I tried the very beginning, but that was slow going.
Inspired by Adam’s book title, I confess that my wife and I have each had dreams about Tony Soprano in which we feared him but sought his affection and protection.
I confess that, having caught up with the Internet on the subject, I regret the wishy-washiness of my Monday Movies analysis of the politics of intra-mutant struggle.
Comment by Josh K-sky | June 10, 2011
I confess that I didn’t see read’s messages and that I am unsure as to whether she (he?) might construe this as if it were indicative of anything.
I confess I rarely check for messages, is all.
Comment by Guido Nius | June 10, 2011
I confess that I’m disappointed that Adam’s book isn’t still titled The Love of Sociopaths.
Comment by ben | June 11, 2011