Listened to "Ain't That Peculiar" on repeat the last leg of the ride in. I wish Smokey Robinson were my therapist.

Speaking of peculiarity, what is this set of conventions called blogging. People used to remark that e-mail was somewhere between a phonecall and a letter; I'd say it's more like velcro and a car alarm.

This feels like a diary, but that can't be it -- where's the relief privacy would bring. I'm aware of wishing I was more like Paul Valery, and these my analects.

Maybe it's more like an open lecture. The schoolrooms of professors manques. (Enough of us are pedantic enough.)