It seems only the most obsessive bloggers are blogging consistently in the summer. Most of us leave a cyberspacial void of silence to speak for our summerly pursuits. Others, like the eminent Kottke, resort to blog re-runs. As the television likes to say, “If you haven’t seen it, it’s new to you.”
I’ve opted for the middle road: Mediocrity. Not scaling the peak of blogging greatness, but not muted by my own seasonal sloth. Mediocre blogging, the online equivalent of standing in a public place and reading a non-embellished short-term memoir to anyone who stops to listen. Like LiveJournal, with comprehensible grammar.
Here goes: I woke at 7:25am. I slept surprisingly well, considering the humidity clings to the walls of this old house like a noisome apparition. After reading a bit of Friday’s New York Times, I jump in the shower, then rouse Mr. P. At 8:30am, we walk to the local diner for breakfast with my family, who was visiting for the weekend. It was the first time I had gone to this diner, and was a bit disgusted by its oily, bland hash-browns. You know what I hate? I hate when my toast is served pre-buttered. I like to control the amount of butter on my toast. And, sometimes I want jam instead.
After seeing off my family, Mr. P and I lace up our sneakers and go to the Middlesex Fells Reservation for some hot-weather trail-running. With its rolling hills and well-maintained paths, the Fells is a good place for trail-running… but that doesn’t make it easy! Man, I sweat like a bear. After about 90 minutes of running through the woods, we decide to walk back to the car to cool down, which worked because it began to rain before we got there.
In the afternoon, we go to the cinema to see The Last Mistress, a steamy French flick about, well, a mistress. The New York Times adored it, but other reviewers emphasize the porn pedigree of director Catherine Breillat and the frankness of the sex scenes. It was actually quite romantic, though I guess I should be outraged by a movie that portrays a French man who is more in love with his hot-blooded brunette mistress than his cold, innocent blond wife.
Now it’s 8:13pm and I feel compelled by the clock to make dinner, though all this mediocre blogging has, like, killed my appetite. Maybe we’ll just have salad and cheese, and then go out for ice cream, although (this wouldn’t be mundane blogging without mentioning that) today has been sort of cool, humid, and rainy.
