Something seems to be going on with me… in my head. I’m all over the place. Today I’m finding the last post I wrote a bit embarrassing.  I’m still glad I wrote it but, just so my mother understands, I wasn’t really writing about prostitution.  I was more interested in the make-up of super-achieving men in business and politics, and how they will go for what they want, even if it means breaking the rules. Anyway, I’m bored of the Spitzer story. I hate how the media moralizes about salacious stories, then milk it for attention and ratings.
I wrote another post this morning about some other subject, but then decided I didn’t like where it was heading.  I was going to write something about Sophia, but I’ll get in trouble if I don’t ask her first — and she isn’t home. Is it possible that I am so co-dependent that — without having a woman as a muse — my writing falls apart?  It’s as if I’m now using my blog as my own high-priced hooker. I don’t know what that means, but it seems accurate.
I also received this nice email from Brett from Dad Talk:
Your Spitzer post has a number of typo/grammatical errors, which is most unlike you. I don’t want to make you paranoid, but I thought you’d want to know.
My wife is always on my case about my mistakes, too.
Thanks, Brett. (anal!) (Pearl, help me find the typos!)
Desperate to put something here to knock the Spitzer post one notch down, I’m going to show you the two framed posters that I have in my office. I have owned them for at least 15 years, and I look at them every day. They are by Matisse and Dominique Appia.
I find the woman in the Matisse painting very very sexy. I would much rather be there than any strip club on Hollywood Boulevard. Men… imagine your woman walking around the house at night in THAT!
I like the chaos of the events in this surrealistic painting. It has a calming effect on me.  OK, it’s pretentious. But I like it.
