It has been one hell of a week. My belief in our government's ability to carry out its most basic function -- protecting all its citizens -- has been more thoroughly shaken than ever before. And it was extremely threadbare to begin with. Bean's surgery seems to have worked wonders for her breathing, but the anxiety that filled us beforehand is now exacting the price we deferred, with interest. Kim is totally stressed out with her deadlines at work and feels like the only energy she has left to give must be held in reserve for her daughter and worries that even so she might not have enough. Bad Subjects is driving me batty. I have hundreds of things I need to read and even more I need to write and no powers of mind for either. But I need to inhale deeply and remember how good we have it, then give myself a short break for inconsequential thoughts that could make me feel better, such as the prospect of Barry Bonds playing his first game of the season tomorrow or the prospect of seeing Bloc Party play in Boston Thursday or the prospect of suddenly finding a way to make all my latent brilliance manifest in an explosion of insight. None of these things are likely to happen, mind you, but musing on them provides a flimsy bulwark against existential despair.
I recently celebrated the two-year anniversary of De File. Today I celebrate a one-year streak in which I haven't missed a day. I hereby absolve myself of the responsibility to keep the streak going. It may happen anyway. But I'm not going to turn into Cal Ripken Jr., alright? If my back hurts, I'm letting someone else play shortstop against the Kansas City Royals.