In the news this week I came across a story about a man who proposed to his girlfriend. At her balking, he decides to take off his clothes and streak through the street to show her that risk taking is a marvelous thing. However, this idea turns out to be rather bad, because naked proposer ends up hiding in a bush when some people walk by, and one of those people spots him, takes out a gun, and begins to fire. Naked proposer runs for his life. Yes, yes, risks are good! Not all end in gunfire! The story neglects to mention whether or not still-fully-dressed girlfriend accepts.
Also read this in my new issue of the Smithsonian on their Last Page section, where they are touting other recent discoveries that bring new light to commonly accepted ideas (prompted by the discovery of the Gospels of Judas):
"Henry David Thoreau's woodsy 19th century journey of self-discovery yielded Walden, which championed moderation in all things and a harmonious relationship between man and the environment. But then, more pages, written in his hand, were found nailed to a rafter in his cabin. 'If I am bitten by one more damned mosquito, I am going to burn down the whole forest. And another thing. It's cold out here. And lonely. Very lonely. My best friend is a piece of tree bark that looks like Zachary Taylor's head. Thank God for moonshine. And guns! Pow! Pow! Pow! Blam! Pow! Gimme a life of loud desperation!'"
And finally, the countdown to The Big Move stands at 47 days until. 47 days in which to pack, to throw away stuff I've had for no reason whatsoever (who needs a water bill not in their name that they paid in full four years ago???), 47 days to visit all the places here that I will miss, to come to a reckoning with the loss of friends, the loss of being able to not get lost in a familiar city (at least, not too terribly lost), 47 days in which to spoil my dogs rotten. Or, conversely, 47 days until I live on the coast!
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