Oh, and then there are my plans for the immediate future of this blog, which should also affect you folks for the better.

1. THE FREELANCIN' LIFE
As I mentioned to a friend this month, the life of a freelance journalist is not unlike the old cliché about the life of the soldier: long periods of mind-numbing boredom interspersed with brief bursts of frenetic panic. This month was bursty.

August was filled with projects piled upon projects, some of which have been already published on Macworld.com, such as an overview of Apple laptop rumors, an analysis of the recent Intel Developer Forum, and a profile of the data recovery firm, DriveSavers.

I also reviewed a dozen (!!) mice for Macworld.com and Macworld the print vehicle (I won't bore you with links to those) and written a summary feature story on mice in general. I've also contributed Excel, Keynote, and Numbers tips to a Macworld feature story.

There were other things tossed in there, as well - marketing work for the local Boys and Girls Clubs, for example. Also some other stuff ... but I'm too addled to remember...

2. THE JOYS OF JOB-HUNTING
I've been through two series of job interviews this month - neither, however, resulted in a job offer. It's remarkable how time-consuming job-hunting can be. There is, of course, the up-front effort of tweaking my résumé and crafting a suitably memorable and well-targeted cover letter. Then - mirabile dictu! - when someone actually responds to a job application, there's preparing for multiple interviews.

This last effort takes a surprisingly substantial amount of time: boning up on the company, familiarizing myself with and developing cogent commentary about their products and services, reading publications by the company's execs, researching their competitors ... the list goes on.

But it appears that I have what baseball analysts refer to as "warning track power." I can hit the ball long and hard, but not quite get it over the fence. Instead, it drops easily into the fielder's glove and ... well ... I'm out.

During this process, I can't help but think that my age is against me - although I have no proof to support that suspicion. Still, this bleak period, as one of Captain Hook's minions whined in the excellent Mary Martin/Cyril Ritchard version of Peter Pan, is "lowerin' to me pride."

This pain, however, is leavened by the fact that I can still get freelancing gigs due to my moderately advanced geekitude and writing "skills." If I were a 58-year-old who had been laid off from an Ohio auto-parts supplier, however, I'd be suicidal. At minimum, I'd be kicking my dog. If I could afford one.

3. THE NOBILITY OF AMERICAN POLITICS
When I was in first grade, I got smacked in the gob by a schoolyard bully because my parents intended to vote for Adlai Stevenson rather than Ike. Since that moment I've been a political junkie, trying to understand and explain to whomever might listen why and how such passions could be ignited in otherwise reasonable people.

This year, though, I've had enough.

The mendacity of presidential politics is now too much to bear. I can't watch anymore. I can't comment anymore.

I've tried to come up with cogent things to say, but it's like treading water in a swirling sewer while looking for meaning in the shit that's invading my nostrils. William Blake may have been right when he said that "Happiness leaves no record," but neither does disgusted powerlessness.

4. LES VACANCES
I've taken August off because I'm French.
     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .
Okay, so, as I mentioned above, three of those explanations are true, two may (or may not) be interesting, and one is a lie. Use a number-two pencil.

THE FUTURE OF THIS BLOG
American politics has become too much for my delicate psyche to take, so between now and November 4th I will not write about McBush, Palin, Obama, or that old white guy with whom Mr. Charisma is hanging.

I will avoid reading any of their pronouncements. I will skirt websites that discuss their latest tits-for-tats (can I still use that term with Palin in the race?). I will skim past newspaper articles that analyze their ... whatever.

See? My disengagement has already begun.

The last straw, of course, was today's announcement by McBush - after weeks of decrying Obama's inexperience - that he had picked a half-term governor of a state with a population of 670,000 for his running mate. A woman who named her kids Track, Bristol, Willow, Piper, and Trig, for chrissakes.

Maybe it was because her eldest, Track, will ship off to Iraq right before the election. Maybe it's because her youngest, Trig, has Downs syndrome and is thus a wondrous sympathy magnet. Maybe it's because she can polish his "maverick" image. Maybe it's because he wanted a red-meat evangelical anti-abortionist to mollify the Christian right.

Maybe it's because she's a woman. You think?

Frankly, though, I don't care anymore. I can't. If I did, my head would explode.

And I need that head to keep up my freelance work. And to figure out how to get a job as a 58-year-old in a depressed economy. And to reinvigorate this blog.

Hey, I whipped up a recipe for shiso and ume pasta last night. Want to read about it? [back to top]

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