Emotion Detectors

Saw this in the Boston Globe today.

Scientists at MIT's Media Lab are developing a wearable device they say is capable of helping people read the subtlest, most nuanced emotions in another person by tracking the movements of that person's eyebrows, lips, and other facial features.

Eventually, ...a tiny camera will be mounted to a pair of glasses or a baseball cap, and the wearer will be alerted by a hand-held computer when the person on the other side of the conversation is bored, annoyed, or confused.

This device is intended to be used by people with autism who can't pick up emotional cues in others. But I can think of plenty of non-autistic people who could benefit from this thing too.

I'm always amazed at how oblivious some people can be. The other day I was doing registration for a seminar. The last person I registered was a fat dude eating a corn muffin, pieces of which he knocked flat-handed back into his gullet the way people in movies pop pills; crumbs bounced off his fat belly onto the floor. He complained about various things for no less than ten minutes (not an exaggeration -- the seminar started and he was in no hurry to get in there), and preceding every bullet-point of complaint he said, "PS."

"...And PS, the guy in the back asked a lot of stupid questions, too. PS, I think the seminar should've been in Marlboro instead of Boston."

I sat there agog at the cartoonish nature of this man. Much of his complaining involved legal issues and recent court decisions of which I had zero knowledge. Was he not able to interpret my emotional cues and realize that his listener 1) didn't care about his commentary on other members of the class, and 2) didn't know anything about the current state of our society's judicial affairs and thus didn't care about his bitching about it?

PS, somebody buy this guy an emotion detector.

An LCiN First

A blogger we don't know has us on her links list.

Thanks!

United 93

I'm all for being uncomfortable. Six Feet Under is my favorite show, the most memorable scenes of which have me clutching the couch cushions or bring me from zero to crying in under 30 seconds. I think there's value in getting shaken-up and in being downright upset, as long as what's doing the shaking is honest and respectful of reality.

That said, I don't know why this movie, based on one of the flights hijacked on 9/11, was made. I guess because it's the flight where the passengers banded together and brought down the plane -- so there's heroism and sacrifice involved -- so it could be inspiring. But still. I watched the trailer and it gave me chills. Not in an exciting way, but in an "I don't want to watch this" way. There's a fine line between the discomfort I'm willing to see and the discomfort I want to avoid. It's the line between showing fictional people going through real things, and showing real people going through real things. I don't know why those two are so different, but they are.

Overheard in the Office

Designer to Copyeditor: What do you think George Clooney smells like?

You Like It

It's so interesting to see how people pick up other people's lingo. In college, the 9th-floor street-facing suite all picked up gestures or words or phrases from each other: A melting pot of dialect and mannerisms.

Mike, obnoxiously, has picked up "he/she likes it" from work. For example, when someone is joking with someone else over cubicle walls, giving them a hard time, a third person will say, "Hey, lay off the new guy." The jokester will then reply with: "He likes it." Mike says it constantly now.

"Mike, don't kill that spider."
"He likes it."

"Mike, stop giving your sister a hard time."
"She likes it."

"Mike, close the sliding door, the cats are going to get cold."
"They like it."


"Mike, shut the fuck up and stop saying that."

"You like it."

Tax Return From the Lord

My mom just called and left a message: "Maggie! Great news, babycakes. I just got your tax information from the accountant and guess what? You will be getting back almost enough to pay for that last college course! Doesn't God work in mysterious ways?!"

(Dad shouts something in background.)

"Dad says: 'Jesus paid you,' " Mom continues on my voicemail. Then my mom says, "But don't laugh, because He did."

How can you not love the Clooney?

Is it possible to not love George Clooney? I don't think there's a cooler man in the public eye right now. I don't mean cool as in awesome, I mean cool in its original sense. Cool as in cool, baby, that's right. It could be argued that Clooney doesn't belong in 2006. I, for one, think he's better suited to cruising around with Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr., moreso than his modern-day Hollywood peers. Clooney has more charisma and personality in his little finger than all the other big names combined. This is a guy who you can look at and think, Oh, yeah, I can see why he's famous. This is a guy who can deliver an Oscar acceptance speech or a random interview with the same easy charm he brings to his roles. He does not disappoint.

And he's classy, too. You don't know anything about his romances or his dating life, and he likes it that way. Clooney doesn't show up in the tabloids, he hasn't been to rehab, and he doesn't trash hotel rooms. He's too cool for that, baby. Clooney's at a jazz club, tapping his foot. Clooney shows you how it's done.

Missed Hair-portunities

Now that I'm almost 24 and working a desk job and hoping to eventually get a job at a public library, the opportunity to do something really crazy with my hair has passed.

I never dyed it a wacky color as so many of my friends did in high school. I'm not sure if I ever would have dyed it purple or anything like that, but I'm sure that now I can't. Why it is that only musicians and artists and punkrock youth can have multi-colored hair? I wish it were more acceptable for other professions to be more creative with their locks. Tattoos are becoming less taboo in the workplace, maybe blue hair is next?

I always wanted to dye my hair blue or try a mohawk.

Bagel Bit

For lunch I usually have a bagel, and every so often I'm lucky enough to get one where the hole has swelled shut, making the bagel look more like a hamburger bun. This is good because it's much easier to spread cream cheese on it when the hole is absent. Rather than trying to maneuver the knife in a circular motion, you can just drag it right across.

Tough Day at the Office

Josh: I am presently sitting here staring at my computer screen, leaned as far back in my chair as I can, doing absolutely nothing.

Maggie: Me too, but I'm eating girl scout cookies.

Ben: I'm listening to my iPod and waiting for lunch.

Heather: I'll be able to join in on email discussions more frequently now... I got a new job - where I basically do nothing - It's amazing!

There's a reason why "Mortgage" means "Deadgage"

First with the work-pooping, now with home ownership, we're definitely on the ball here at LCiN. This Q&A on home-buying was on the front page of MSNBC today.

Mary is moving from the Big Apple to a place where the median home price will buy you more than a broom closet. As a first-time buyer, she's trying to figure out just how much house she can afford.

This question really has two very different answers: 1) how much will a lender give you? and, more importantly, 2) how much do you feel comfortable borrowing?

Especially for first-timers, you really need to start with question #2, and no one can answer it better than you can. If you’ve never made a budget, sit down and come up with one. How much cash do you think you can comfortably afford to devote each month to housing (mortgage) payments? Some people are willing to forego movies and dinner out, bring lunch to work every day and give up their car – anything to own a home. Some stretch too far and find themselves pouring all their income into the house, leaving themselves in permanent financial stress.

...You may be surprised to learn that the lender’s idea of what you can afford is a lot more than you came up with in your original exercise. The formula they use includes some risk on their part that you’ll end up a little over your head. They’re willing to take a little risk because the bigger the loan they sell you, the more they make. But you don’t need to take that risk. Only you can determine your own comfort level.

I guess that settles that. Apartment life, here we come... er, stay!

Coyote in the City

Yahoo News and the NYTimes reports that a wild coyote somehow made its way into New York City and has been roaming Central Park for days. Park Authorities named the coyote Hal. (Hal has since been tranquilized and trucked upstate to a wildlife reserve.)

At first, I thought this story was charming. How strange that a wild animal find its way into the city and then evade authorities for days by leaping into the pond and swimming away, among other tactics. Part of the description of the Hal Chase goes like this:

"The posse chasing Hal cornered him by the Heckscher Ballfields, but he got away again. Hal retreated to the sanctuary, where a pile of feathers suggested that he had made a meal of a bird, probably a pigeon, Mr. Benepe said. After a quick swim across the sanctuary's duck pond, he sprinted past the rink, where an actress in a wig was doing figure eights."

But the last few sentences of the story kind of ruined it for me: Another coyote who was in the city in 1999 was taken to the Queens Zoo. Why couldn't they set him free again like they did for Hal?

Money, honey

For the last year or so, all things considered, I've felt pretty well off. With my editorial assistant's salary, I can afford the gas to get me to work and grad school; I can pay my rent, my phone bill, car payment, the electric and the cable; I can afford a monthly Netflix fee; I can buy the overpriced deli items at Whole Foods on occasion; and every now and then, I can splurge for a facial or a massage.

When I first started my job, my salary felt like a million bucks. Then I got my first paycheck and cried when I saw how much is taken out for taxes. But still, I can afford all of the above-mentioned things. I'm not poor.

My generation, for the most part, can afford to go out to dinner, to buy their friends a round of drinks, to purchase all the Simpsons box sets and newly releasing DVDs they want, but there is no way in hell that we can afford to buy a home or even a condo. At this age, our parents with their foot-just-in-the-door salaries could buy a modest home. They could afford to have children. (Not that I want children now, but if I did, I would have to wait anyway, because there's no way I could afford it.)

Maybe I would be able to afford a house faster if I didn't spend money in Whole Foods, or on Netflix or facials. But what's a good balance between saving for things that seem such a long way off and allowing myself little luxuries that will make me happy now? I want to buy a house, but I also want to eat spinach and garlic stuffed portabella mushrooms at $4 each from Whole Foods every now and then. I don't want my life in the present to be enjoyment-barren just so someday, in the far off future, I can have a house or afford to fly to L.A. to see friends.

The Six Degrees of a Small World

The new editorial assistant has been working here since December. We chat occasionally. Today, I came back to my desk from recording a podcast and she was in the middle of telling the Intern a story from her weekend. One of her friend's purses was stolen from a bar. Since her friend's address was on her license, which was in her purse, the thief found her apartment and her car. Since her keys were in her purse, they stole her car too.

The story was very familiar to me.

I interrupted: "Wait, tell this story again."

The blonde editorial assistant recapped for me. "On Friday, my friend's purse was stolen and they went to her apartment and stole her car too."

"Who is your friend?" I asked.

"Steph Orm-"

"Oh my God," I interrupted again. "Your friend is roommates with my boyfriend's little sister."

"What?"

"Over the weekend, my boyfriend's little sister was telling us how her roommate's purse and car were stolen. When I first heard you telling this story, I was going to say, 'Wow, that happened to my friend too,' but it's the same person."

"How bizarre!" Editorial Assistant said, seeming genuinely as surprised and excited as me. Intern just stared and listened.

"Yeah, I went to UMass with Steph and she met her roommate because they work together."

"Yup. That's my boyfriend's sister," I said again.

"What a small world! That's like, two degrees of separation," she said.

Things like this happen to people all the time. Usually it's "oh, I have a friend who lived in that building too" or "my brother went to college there too" or "my ex works there too." For me, this is one of the most coincidental of cases since all the people at each point of the "six degrees" are people I've actually met. The roommate, in the middle, I have only met twice, but the other two? One I spend 8 hours a day with, five days a week. The other one I've known since we were both 15; we danced badly at two family weddings, and I've advised about boyfriends and sex several times over the years.

I'm mentioning all of this because I don't believe that it's a small world. Some people go through life never meeting someone who knows someone they know, never running into someone from their hometown (who they previously had never met).

People get excited when they meet someone from the same state they were born in, but why? I live in Massachusetts but when I meet someone from New Jersey, I think - 'how bizarre, you're from Jersey too, but you ended up here?' And I immediately feel a bond with them. This is an absurd reaction.

I don't believe in fate or destiny. I believe in coincidence. Coincidences are often fascinating and surprising and exciting. They often lead me to seek the larger design at work underneath the fabric of daily life, but I do so only to entertain myself. I could have a field day with this co-worker-is-best-friends-with-boyfriend's-sister's-roommate thing, but instead I'm just reveling in the randomness of the universe.

Down With the Hot People Revolution!

One of the things that struck me about V For Vendetta was how average-looking the cast was. (OK, Natalie Portman is hot, but it was an unglamorous role -- recall the scene where she gets her head shaved live on camera.) The fact that the Inspector was played by a middle-aged dude rather than some muscle stud like Paul Walker was a breath of fresh air.

Whenever I see old TV shows or movies or those "Remember the songs of the 60s and 70s" infomercials, I'm struck by how normal the stars in them look. Something happened in the mid-90s. Someone discovered that hot people attract better ratings. Movie stars went from looking like Humphrey Bogart to looking like Matthew McConaughey. The only way you can survive in the music industry now is if you're hot. In fact, in all media, it's almost required that you've just stepped out of a Calvin Klein underwear ad.

Remember how the people on The Real World used to be representative of the audience? Back in the early seasons each cast member had some kind of specialty: the poet, the race-car driver, the musician, the political activist, the cartoonist. Remember Judd from San Francisco? No way Judd would get cast in 2006. He's so average. At some point in the last few years, they stopped casting real people and started casting models. It used to be you had to be good at something, have a talent... now you're just supposed to take off your shirt and jump around.

Now, I guess I'm guilty of supporting this. I did, after all, write about how I was going to watch the Olympics for the men. But still, it pisses me off. I'm not demanding that the media be full of fuglies, but can't we compromise? I don't think every news announcer and guitarist and bit player in UPN TV shows needs to look like a fashion model. It's at the point where, when I see average-looking people in a movie or on television, I have immediate respect for whatever it is -- clearly the creators have enough confidence in their story to not have to resort to doling out softcore porn. It's probably no coincidence that The Amazing Race is my favorite reality show, and also one of the few that casts normal-looking people. I can enjoy a show without being hypnotized by pectorals and perfect teeth, thank you very much.

There's a Coke ad that's been playing before the main attraction at Loews for a while. It's the one where the college kids go on a road trip making a documentary (and drinking lots of Coke). The kids looked like they were scooped right off the street and put in the commercial. The first time I saw it, I was shocked to see that they had Supercuts haircuts. And would you believe they also had acne! Now that is the pause that refreshes.

Punk'd and Mainstream'd

Chris and I went to the movies last night with a coworker of Chris's, his girlfriend, and two of their friends. Afterward we began the walk home as a group, losing members one at a time to various T stops and side-streets. By the time we got to our block, there was just one other guy with us. He had his bike, and looked like a city bike-rider. The tight jeans with the right leg rolled up, revealing colorful sock; short-brimmed cap; messenger bag. I think maybe he had gauges in his ears.

Anyway, this guy made me wish I had a more original look. I felt like an uber-mainstream youngrepublican compared to him. But as I began to observe the details of his attire and style, I realized that he looked like all other bike messenger types. I'm not knocking him -- he seemed like a nice guy -- what I'm saying is that no one is really an individual, at least fashion-wise. Even if you don't look totally mainstream, you look like the other people who look like you. Emo people look emo. Punk rockers all look punk rock. Cowboys look like cowboys. Goths all look like goths. Flamers look like flamers. Mod people look like every other mod person. I guess even while you're trying to be unique, there's only so far you can go.

If you're truly unique, too unique, you just look plain weird. And while lots of people want to look different, no one wants to look weird.

Turd Burgled

At the risk of raising some eyebrows, I need to make one more mention of pooping. Specifically, work-pooping.

The topic of work-pooping has been good to us here at LCiN (our Bathroom Discourse, parts 1, 2, 3 and 4, are our most linked-to posts, often by people googling "bathroom etiquette"), because there appears to be a growing interest in the phenomenon of pooping at work. The other day Maggie sent me an article on this very subject that appeared recently in Bust magazine. And you may have been lucky enough to receive the forwarded email outlining the various methods of dealing with workplace number 2s. ("Crop-dusting": When farting, walk briskly around the office so the smell is not in your area and everyone else gets a whiff but doesn't know where it came from.)

I guess as more and more of people's lives are spent in offices, things like this are bound to become issues. We're not designed to be "professional" for long periods of time, using fake telephone voices all day and holding in our gasses. Pooping, apparently, has touched a nerve.

Blast From the Past

Well, my letter took a few re-routes and eventually found its way to Ethan, and I got an email from him tonight. Imagine that, seeing that name in my inbox!

He wants to get together. He wants me to meet his fiancee, and he wants to meet Chris.

I'm somewhere between crying and laughing and wanting to jump around on the furniture.

Man oh man.

Harrassed From the Past?

A few weeks ago when I was playing with Emerson's new alumni directory, I found the contact info of a good friend I lost touch with years ago. I had looked for him but was never able to find anything, no email address or MySpace profile. Not until the online directory launched.

The info was an address, and by that I mean the snail-mail variety. For a few weeks I thought about writing an old-fashioned letter. I kept putting down the idea and then picking it up again. The relevance of contacting him rose and fell like a tide. Sometimes it was a good idea, sometimes I thought it was better to let sleeping dogs lie.

When it seemed like a bad idea, it seemed so because I don't know how it would be interpreted. On the few occasions I've received blast-from-the-past greetings, they've made me uncomfortable. Why write to me? Why now? And what am I expected to do with this?

How do you feel about old friends popping up out of the blue? I guess it depends on how the friendship ended. If it ended in a fight you're probably less likely to want to hear from the person. But what if you just lost touch? What if it was somewhere in between?

Well, I wrote out and sent a letter to the address I found, which may not even be accurate (he may have moved since the database was last updated). I didn't feel any regret or panic when I dropped it in the mailbox, and I chalked that up to the doubt I feel that he'll ever receive it. I was really jittery the next day, though, and the day after, when, if he was going to get it, he had gotten it. Who knows what will happen. Maybe I'll get a letter back. I hope so. Or maybe someday in the future I'll open up an issue of Found and see mine there. That would be okay too.

The Bada Beginning

Like millions of other Americans, I love The Sopranos. I anxiously awaited last night's premiere. I thought it was okay, and then was blown away by the cliffhanging ending. A very courageous way to start a new season.

What's unusual is the time leap. Usually, every season starts roughly where the previous one left off. One of the first scenes is Tony coming down the driveway in his bathrobe to get the paper (with the exception of the 5th season, when he didn't live there). The Sopranos was on a nearly two year hiatus. It has been almost that long since the last episode of the last season aired. It's unusual that the show is reflecting that lapse in time. It picks up roughyl 18 months after the events of last season.

Six Feet Under is a show that does whatever it wants with time. One of the characters can have a huge 30 minute chunk of an episode devoted to their story line. Season Three leaps a year ahead from where Season Two ended. Season Four picks up in the same night that Season Three closed with. A single episode can represent a few hours or span several weeks. It was an adjustment to make when I started watching Six Feet Under, but I felt like it worked. I'm not sure it works for The Sopranos. There is a theory that last's night episode is really the final episode of the series and that all subsequent episodes will go back and fill in the time period we know nothing about. There is also talk, less logically and likely, about the whole first episode being a dream sequence.

I don't agree with either theory, but I'm bothered by not knowing how exactly the characters got to where they are now. Also, the series has left a lot of unresolved plot lines, something that I can accept from Six Feet Under, but am annoyed by in The Sopranos.

A lot of people are annoyed by the season premiere. Too dull (until the end at least) and nothing new. "Tired old story lines and character obstacles," I've heard. I'm sure they're going to keep watching though. And, even though I'm annoyed about the time issue and the things I don't know, I'll be right there with them.

Cow Abductions

Click the cow.

Oprah and Tyra

How is it that Oprah has gained the power that she wields over millions of American women?

She has a book club, a magazine, a TV show, a diet program. She makes a huge amount of money but her show isn't much different than other daytime talk shows. She does a-day-in-the-life-of things like "Gay for 30 Days." She talks to people about eating disorders, domestic abuse, unruly children. She interviews celebrities. How is she different from Regis&Kelly?

Her magazine isn't a far cry from Women's Day or Real Simple or Redbook. Her diet programs are just as effective as Jenny Craig or Weight Watchers.

And the book club. Oprah has the power to sit and chastise a best-selling author and his publishing house. I think her book club is wonderful in that it promotes reading and supports book publishing. But I think she could do more with it. She could have the club read more books so that more titles would enjoy the skyrocketing sales her promotion guarantees. She could read different books - it seems like a lot of them are about substance abuse or physical abuse or disfunctional families. I hate the power she wields over the publishing industry.

I respect Oprah for the empire she's built. And she does a lot of great things. She has put herself far above other afternoon talk shows like Sally Jesse or Geraldo. I guess I just want more from her. And, she fell from grace a little with that grossly overblow James Frey thing. She came off as ridiculous.

Tyra Banks now has a talk show in the same time slot as Oprah. (Don't know what they were thinking, no one will ever top Oprah, ever!) As much as I love to hate Tyra on America's Next Top Model, I just hate her on her talk show. Or at least, on the bits of it I've seen.

One day, Tyra dressed in a fat suit and the whole show was about how no one paid attention to her and she was treated differently than she normally is. Duh.

This week, she had a report on why men go to strip clubs. Tyra went undercover as a stripper to find out. "So many women have written in to me with this problem," she said, "and we're going to get to the bottom of it today." Yes, Tyra, why oh why do men go to strip clubs?

Ugh.

Kiwa hirsuta Takes A Job

This newly-discovered sea creature has accepted a position in my department, doing something with book-cover design. He started this morning and sits a few cubes over from me. I overheard him say into his cellphone that since his solitude was disturbed at the bottom of the ocean, he figured the next best thing in the way of total isolation was an office cubicle.

I'm not sure of his name. It might be Stuart. We weren't, of course, actually introduced to this new person at all. At least us lowly EAs weren't. This is standard practice. When new employees are given the office tour, somehow the introductions skip us. We, or at least myself, are then left to interact awkwardly and second-handedly with the new person for the remainder of their tenure.

He carries a briefcase, which I find odd. What would he put in it on his first day? And as he walks he tap-tap-taps the side of the briefcase with a free claw, as though constantly trying to prove its solidity. And he's a bit too dressed-up, if you ask me, but I guess everyone over-dresses on their first day. (I, for example, wore a tie.) Also, he wears his cellphone clipped to his belt, as though he were on call or some kind of rescue worker. You'd have to live ten miles below the surface of the sea to not know that that's a major fashion faux pas. Oh, right.

Well, he's a curious addition to our staff, that's for sure. And I don't think he's a natural blond.

Reeve

When my boss mentioned this morning that Dana Reeve had died, I exclaimed, "What?!" and it must've seemed like I knew her personally. I feel like I did, because I felt like I knew her husband. His was a face I had in my mind since I was old enough to tie a towel around my neck and jump off furniture. I still miss him, which is weird, given that I never met him.

The Reeves were both inspirational for me for different reasons, and for different parts of me. Every little boy wants to be Superman. I grew up with Chris's face the symbol of power and imagination. And it was still that, even when he was paralyzed, because it was still Superman's face. I could attach to it exactly what I wanted this fictional character to be. What Would Superman Do? Everything right, always. It's a childish thing, a fanciful notion, a justification to do what you already know is right. Because Superman would. I never separated Chris Reeve from Superman, so that's what he meant, and still means, to me.

Dana was an inspiration for the adult me. When, especially in the past year, I felt like the issues that come with my relationship are too much to handle, when I felt like I would rather be off meeting other, easier people, I would often think of her, how she stood by Chris, her love, after his accident; how she put her life aside to take care of him. And I bucked up and dealt.

Chris was a child's vision of strength; Dana was an adult's. I hope their son Will, who must feel very alone right now, is able to mix those two strengths together, because at thirteen he's going to have to be an adult and a kid. Chin up, Will. What Would Your Mom & Dad Do?

Man vs. Beast

People often look at the things animals do and say, "Wow - how smart! Just like us!"

Rather than 'just like us', it should be that we are just like them, a lot moreso than people typically recognize.

Techstasy

I encountered this word in an article in Wired magazine. As in, what Mac-heads feel at the unveiling of a new iPod.

Maggie's "idolspize" has successfully incorporated itself into my daily lexicon. We'll see if "techstasy" has the same staying power.

Brokeback Post

I'm surprised by how disappointed I am that Brokeback Mountain didn't win Best Picture last night. I didn't think I would care because I wasn't sure it deserved to win. Capote was a better movie; Crash may have been too. Brokeback wasn't even my favorite movie of the year.

So when it lost, I wasn't angry -- but I still feel a low sadness about it, a mopey hanging-head sadness. Because it wasn't just about the movie for me, I realize now. I wanted to live in a world where a same-gender love story can win Best Picture. That's all. That one little thing. Heck, maybe we already live in that world; maybe it's just that Brokeback wasn't good enough.

Maybe.

I guess we'll never know.

Fridays

It's Friday and I feel like if there were even one day left in the work-week, I wouldn't survive it. If, for instance, today were actually Thursday and I had to endure another day, I would fall into a coma around 9:30 a.m. This week hasn't been particularly tedious or long, but that doesn't seem to factor in. The promise of a reprieve always makes the day before almost unbearable. The more vacations I have, the more I need them. I wonder how long I could go without feeling this tired and pissy if I had no vacations at all? What if we had to make use of the edges of our days instead of waiting for (and then squandering) the only two days we think of as useful and pleasant?

I think things would be better if we never had to work at all. I'm tempted to think they'd also be better if we worked seven days a week.

Hemingway Shot Himself

Today is slow at work and I'm continuing with my umteenth round of editing on my book. On this latest pass-through one of the more significant changes was in a line of Griff's exgirlfriend's dialogue when she's talking to Vince.

Old version: "Now that I'm graduated I can finally start my life, but [Griff] just seems unwilling to do anything."

New version: "Now that I'm graduated I can finally start my life, but now that he's graduated he acts like his is over."

That change sums up something I'd been feeling about Griff but hadn't found a way to express until now. Also it heightens my fear of never being done. Purely hypothetically, what if the book gets published after the 14th revision, but if I'd done a 15th something wonderful would've gotten added?

It was pointed out to me that F. Scott Fitzgerald went insane trying to get his books perfect, and Hemingway shot himself. "At some point," I was advised, "you have to tell yourself that you're done and move on."

But that's easier said than done, especially when it comes to the kind of stuff I write. Oh, I wish I were a storyteller. Stories have obvious endings and completions. Unfortunately I'm a peopleteller, and the problem with that is that I'm always learning more about people. There is always one more quirk or motivation that can be added to a character to make him more realistic.

I think part of me would enjoy eventually having a dramatic demise in the halls of a looney-bin or at the end of a shotgun. However, I'd prefer not to do it after the first book.

I Don't Do Marvel

I'm browsing the comic shelf at Newbury Comics this afternoon and one of the guys who works there is organizing the new arrivals.

"Do you read this one?" he asks me, taking a comic down and showing it to me.

I glance at it, noting not the title but the publisher's logo in the top left corner.

"I don't do Marvel," I say, happily more elitist and smarmy than I'm usually able to appear spontaneously.