Somewhere in Minnesota, Keillor is hitting his head and waxing poetic

I'm fairly particular about who and what I take the time to read. I don't like wasting precious minutes of the day with trite drivel, and after all, who does? I may take just as long if not longer to find a book that fascinates me than it takes to read it. But when I find something I like, I'm loyal. Online, this means I spend a few minutes out of each day (or 30 or 60) to read a blog from a bloke in Wisconsin I'm fond of, and who's particularly, painfully talented (except when he writes about football, or darts, or golf- none of which do I have a penchant for), and scanning the articles in Salon, particularly Cary Tennis' advice column for the scandalous and lashing responses of the ironically superiorly moral left set, and once a week Garrison Keillor, another midwesterner (WTF, really?) who usually has insightful and politically paralleled opinions to my own.

Today though, Keillor talked about repeatedly hitting his head on a particularly low-lying ceiling beam of his "1911" home, his daughter's amusement of the incident, and the irony of how grateful he was to feel the pain of that THUMP, reminding him he's alive, and blah blah blah. An interesting article, but I got more from the latter half characterization of his late-journalism professor (whom the bump reminded him of) who would write "B.S.," and "Oh, for God's sake" on his submitted papers. HAH, Mr. Keillor. But sitting down to take in the "full benefit of the experience" of fwacking yourself on the noggin. Oh, for God's sake. There are far greater things to remind you of the human experience- what to appreciate and what to stop taking for granted. I stepped on a teeny tiny shard of glass last night in the garbage shoot area, a leftover remnant from the huge framed art that fell and broke in my apartment, and that I'd been so careful to ensure was bagged up and labeled "GLASS," not thrown haphazardly down the shoot, so as not to hurt my fellow residents or the porters in the building. Who ends up with a bleeding foot? Moi. There's irony, but I didn't have an existential moment over the damn thing.

To each his own.