When you were in college did you ever get around to reading the diary of
Samuel Pepys? No? Don't worry about it. That was then, this is now.
Jan. 10th. Up betimes, and I power up the computer on my way
downstairs. I let the cat in and feed him, get the papers, and go back
upstairs with cups of coffee. I resist the temptation to check the
night's e-mail and instead settle down in a reading chair to peruse the
New York Times while my wife reads the Atlanta Constitution, punctuating
her reading with expressions of disbelief. "Hah! . . . Ridiculous! . . .
Phttt! . . . Stupid! . . . Horrible!" "It's the same in the Times," I
assure her (though it's not exactly the same because the New York Times
reports the day's horrors with such ponderous, numbing thoroughness that
it's hard for a reader to develop a sprightly cadence for cries of
outrage). We switch papers and she goes downstairs to make some
breakfast. Before joining her, I check my e-mail, then I go downstairs.
After breakfast, my wife leaves to go to work, and I repair to my office
upstairs to make and receive phone calls and answer mail and work on
Educom Review. I start to write a column but realize it's almost noon
and I need to shower and dress and go to lunch. After lunch I am back at
my workstation, where I toil until evening.
We dine at home; then read a bit before watching Georgia Tech beat
North Carolina, blessed be God. I check e-mail, mainly to get items from
Suzanne to include in Edupage; I incorporate them in Edupage and send it
out. And so to bed.
12th. Just after midnight. I go into my office and turn on the
computer to see if the night has brought me the answer I'm expecting
from the West Coast. It has not; it has brought other, less welcome
messages that I wish I'd not seen until the morning, if ever. I turn off
the computer and read awhile and then go to bed.
14th. This afternoon, a conference call about Educom Review. Wendy
works out of New Jersey, Suzanne out of Florida, Greg out of Texas, and
I out of Georgia. Before the conference call, I talk with Roger in
Washington about subscription matters, but then at two-thirty, Suzanne,
Wendy, Greg, and I peel into the conference call like audio fighter
pilots on first dates. The discussion goes well, but we wish we had
teleconferencing capabilities so we could see just what it is we are
talking about. During the middle of the call, Butch comes upstairs
wanting to be fed, or let out, or both. I attempt to ignore him but he
leaps into my lap and digs his claws into my groin. "Damn you!" I shout
into the phone. Suzanne says, "John, it's just a magazine." Butch won't
leave me in peace, so I have to excuse myself from the conference call
to go downstairs to feed him. When I get back, Wendy, Suzanne, and Greg
tell me that everything's been decided. "Good," I say sincerely, in
pain. I decide that office cats are a bad idea.
17th. In my office all day, very busy. Then out to dinner at
Nino's. We are back in time to watch the last half of "Crossfire." The
participants are brawling with one another. The kitchen phone rings; I
try to take the call from the den, using the portable phone, but for no
good reason the portable's not working. I go into the kitchen and pick
up the wall phone. "This is Somebody-Somebody from the Something
Corporation," a woman tells me over the phone. "I'm sorry," I tell her,
"I'm having dinner," and hang up. As I return to the den I wonder if the
woman might have been a business caller who somehow got forwarded by the
stupid telephone system to my private line. There are half a dozen phone
sets in the house, all of which work differently and in unpredictable
and evil ways. I return to "Crossfire" to find that the television
brawlers have already been removed by The Authorities and that I have
missed the final cathartic bloodbath.
18th. An e-mail message from Brian in Ottawa informs me that my fax
machine is broken and that everything I've ever sent out has an ugly
black line down the right-hand side of each page. When I happen to
mention this to Wendy, she asks me what kind of fax machine I have; it
turns out we both have the same kind. She is very patient with me. "They
come from the manufacturer with some gunk on the right-hand side of the
glass strip under the cover, so what you need to do is take some cotton
balls and remove the gunk with some alcohol." "And does the manufacturer
have the courtesy to tell us about this gunk in his stupid User's
Manual?" I ask with righteous indignation. However, I follow Wendy's
advice and remove the gunk. I would very much like to know what the
stupid User's Manual had to say on the topic of gunk, but I can't
remember what I did with the stupid thing.
19th. All the morning in my office. Various telephone
conversations, with people wanting to arrange consulting projects. "Is
that a cat I hear?" a potential client asks me. "Do you have a cat in
your office?" "No," I assure him, "not a cat. Not really." "It sounds
like a cat," he insists. "If it's not a cat, what is it?" "It's a
chair!" I tell him, "Listen--I'll swivel in my chair, and you'll think
you're hearing a cat." Butch, blessed be God, meows on cue. "You're
right," says the client happily. "Your chair sounds just like a cat!"
Butch has been much on my nerves today, and I feel very tired. I want to
quit for the day and go home, and I start to do that, before realizing
sadly that I am already at home.
21st. At bedtime, I remember that I haven't written my column yet
for the March/April issue. I start the computer and write it. Then,
after doing some e-mail, I reread what I've written and see that it's
too splenetic to use as a column; I decide, instead, to save it for my
memoirs. Which means that I still have a column to write. Maybe an idea
for it will come to me tomorrow, blessed be God. And so to bed.