The testicles of the west

Oh, in the news. Here, "spinster" is removed from the dictionary, which I think is sort of strange. More sensibly, it has now been removed from British Law and women who marry in that great kingdom no longer are classified as such on their marriage certificates. Fortunately I missed that change by a mere six months, and so I will be noted forever as a spinster in the annals of the Blackburn Lancashire Registry Office. Further, gorgeous, sophisticated, erudite and married to a British heartthrob. No silly, not me! It's Gwyneth, profiled. I love her. James Frey aside, this article asks why "we" (by this "we" I do not include myself) are so enthralled by mems of other people's misery. Obviously, it cites British agony mags like "Take a Break", which I incidentally find to be one of the oddest periodicals ever to appeal. I saw one the other day with "My husband stapled me to our floor!!" on the front cover. A review of new Cold War texts (including one by Gaddis!) that serve to "cure Cold War nostalgia".

It was a lovely weekend- out Friday night for Erin's brilliant birthday karaoke. Saturday was the most gorgeous day ever, and we spent it basking in some Kensington Market sunshine. I wrote for two and a half hours today, and my story is growing growing in ways that absolutely fascinate me. I am learning about so much through this endeavour, about stuff I never even thought about before. Though I think Stuart is beginning to find it a bit dull that the story is the only thing I ever talk about.

Except Need for Speed on his Gamecube. Yesterday we started playing it together, but not competitively. When I drive into the wall and can't turn around, Stu stops his car and waits for me to catch up. And sometimes he selects the Lincoln Navigator to race in, just so I can beat him fair and square.