not by train, not by bus.

Sometimes I run out of things to say. Or do. Passing the time isn't my forte, and neither is making up for lost time. At least I still have my senses. I can hear, see, taste, smell and feel. I'm soaking it all in until the moment hits me to get talking again. Writing again, too.

I have so many reasons to be thankful, starting with the people I think that I could never do without. And then there are the people I hardly know, who turn up out of the blue to save the day, or even just the hour, because sometimes happiness or even plain old contentment is just that short lived. I hold faith in the good that all of these people are doing, for the hours, the days, and even the years. Not just for me, but for everyone and the universe besides.

But I'm not going to sit here and wax all cheesy on anyone's ass.

It's not really my style after all, nor is it my real talent. The truth is, I'd love to be able to make up for what I lack in talent in some small way. Not boring anyone until their head slides off would be a start. So, I'm thankful. Who really cares anyway? And who isn't? Moving on.

I read "How To Be Good," once. I may read it again, and soon. This is not because Nick Hornby is a genius, although High Fidelity became one of the best goddamn  movies I know. If you know me, then you know "movies I know" are about as limited as the number of known Robert Johnson recordings. Books, less so.

Nick Hornby makes good points. Points so obvious that we totally forget them. But not in a bad way (if by "bad way" I mean "Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs"). A bad way would be to totally condescend your readers, thereby making them feel stupid for forgetting how basic human instincts can turn even intelligent, witty, and even nice human beings into complete morons.

(THIS REALLY HAPPENS.)

I like that about Nick Hornby. I also like that about "How To Be Good." (What I like about "Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs," is that it reminded me of how much I need to read Nick Hornby again.) I actually consider Nick Hornby books more or less "in between" reads. They're quick. They're to the point.

Then I can dig into Edith Wharton, or maybe even John Updike, to whom I've recently devoted about three months of my reading life (only to discover that Rabbit really is going to age and die right before and because of my very eyes). Precisely the moment to yell, "Mercy," or better yet, to call on Hornby.

So I thank him, too.