Zipped and/or locked

I am eating leftover spaghetti, fresh from the office microwave. The container, a flimsy Ziploc® product, is sweating onto my desk. I can already feel the terrible toxic by-product of plastic and heat as it is absorbed by my prostate. Or is that simply the paranoid workings of my brain talking to me? I investigate, and find the following communique:

When used in the microwave, there is no trace level migration of dioxins from any Saran™ or Ziploc ® product. We know this because these products are 100% dioxin-free…Our Saran™ and Ziploc ® products can be used with confidence when label directions are followed…Please help us alleviate consumers’ concerns and share these facts. Thank you for giving us a chance to set the record straight.

This, from the company’s own mouth organ. Now I don’t know what to believe. My pessimistic obsessive hypervigilance vs. their rosy corporate communication. How can we both be wrong?

Peppered

Y'know, you can't ever coast through life. Not one stinking day. Just when I thought I had my investment instruments all sewn up forever, they changed the adjectival* administrators. Will this cost more in the long run? I don't know.

*Thanks to the wonderful The True History of the Kelly Gang by Peter Carey for peppering my language with the word adjectival. Read the book.

Clock in a thunderstorm

Just back from Chicken Little with family and neighborhood. The tween humor and pasty 70's soft pop hits aren't my style, and Zach Braff's mildly software-enhanced voice was not enhanced enough to be appropriate. The payoff was the movie about the movie at the end.

I thought I'd eat a pizza. But the delivery time was later than I thought it should be. Instead, I thought I'd have a hair cut. But the line at Hair Cuttery was longer than I was prepared to endure. I thought I'd write a story. But the ending was too far down the road to see with my bad eyes. So here I sit. Not waiting for pizza or a haircut. Not waiting for the night or for my ship or for the sky to fall. Not waiting for sleep or for inspiration. For the moment, I'm waiting for the moment. And how nice...here it is.

Forsake the others

Dreamed that my lost friend Zach Fanueil (not his real name) returns. I am angry about his unexplained dissociation, but I am prepared to reconcile. Suddenly, he bends forward and kisses me on the mouth. He straightens to his full height and explains that he has a very bad cold.

Jerk.