Today is Harry Houdini’s birthday—his 137th, to be exact—but even though I went to his wiki page and got semi caught up in the section about his second career as a ghostbuster (well, seance-discreditor I guess), I don’t really have anything much to say about Harry Houdini.
Except that he was already suffering from appendicitis, so he probably would have died with or without the 3 swift blows to the gut.
Also he performed his last show (and died) in Detroit, so woot woot my home town, which really isn’t my home town unless I’m talking to people who live more than 100 miles from Michigan. In which case I generally say I’m “from the Detroit area.”
Other than that I’m coming up short.
Last week was all about working at coffee shops and starting the rough draft of my article. I’m still trying to figure out what this week is about, besides avoiding the bacterial remains of Carl’s cold and attempting to drown my own achiness in consuming every carb known to man. I never really understood people whose emotional eating revolved around ice cream. I’m more of a full pan of lasagna, please, type of person.
But the article still exists and is beginning to look slightly less disheveled. Slightly.
And I’m thinking about my book. Which doesn’t really count for anything, but is probably a better sign than playing Plants vs. Zombies or watching Kurt Cobain interviews.
Not that I would EVER do either. I’m just saying.