I appear to have been gifted by the denim gods.


I had been wondering what to do about my bag. After all, it was my first attempt, and as endearing as quirkiness may be, there were definitely flaws to be corrected in the design and execution. Still, I thought it might be a waste to basically chuck a perfectly functional bag, especially one that held such specific significance for me.

Luckily, someone else made the decision for me.


So, I’m reading the accompanying article on Death Cab for Cutie’s session for Daytrotter when when I get bludgeoned by this question: “If this isn’t love this time, then what is it now?”


Last fall, I got a new messenger bag. It was designed by a student at the Savannah College of Art and Design, and I got it even though I didn’t really need it. I just liked the way it looked.

However, when I got the bag, I came to realize that it had several shortcomings. It was a fairly cheap bag from Barnes & Noble, so obviously it wasn’t going to be, say, a Chrome or a Timbuk2. Even still, this bag gave me inspiration to think about what I actually wanted from it.


It’s been almost a week now since I unceremoniously lost my job. I’ve only fallen asleep before 4am once in that time, and even then I was awake by 3am.

Things were going quite well. I was, for probably the first time in my life, content with all aspects of my being. Was it perfect? Not a chance. Are there several to many things that could have been improved? Absolutely. But I was happy.

A friend counseled me with the advice, “It will get better. It always gets worse before it gets better.”

“I didn’t need it to get better. It was perfectly peachy the way it was.”

I ride my bicycle around New York a lot. It is often faster than any other form of transportation and always more fun, plus it makes me feel a lot better about the fact that I don’t get any exercise, primarily because it’s, you know, exercise.

On Monday, I went to see Paprika, which was simultaneously excellent and bizarre beyond explanation. I rode my bike to the theater, which is stupid for several reasons. To start with, it was 85° (Fahrenheit, just in case it needed to be clarified) that day. I rode into Manhattan at midday, and I had to leave my bike chained up outside for a few hours. Nevertheless, I persevered. And my bike didn’t get stolen.


As we can all easily imagine, helping your boss to write his resignation letter is a bit depressing. The even better part is a couple days later, when the big boss receives the letter and calls you to tell you that you need to start looking for a new job.

Needless to say, this puts a further damper on my plans of, you know, enjoying my summer.

It could be worse. I could have scurvy.