I'll Tell It To You Straight

This morning I asked Lynn if she could remember the name of the gay guy we’d met on a plane and subsequently tried to befriend—because we thought such a relationship would add to our social diversity, be fun, and make us feel cooler about ourselves. The plan went dreadfully awry when we visited him at his Northern Virginia condo and found him to be terrestrially uninteresting. I’m not sure what we were expecting, but it was definitely something gayer and more exotic than what we found. We all sat around talking about boring crap that I can’t remember anymore. He gave us a tour of his place, which was not diverse at all, looking like approximately 500 other condos in that particular development.

To be fair, I’m sure Lynn and I were way more interesting on the plane, when we were garrulous and heady with excitement at the prospect of having a gay friend, than we were in Northern Virginia, where our disillusionment no doubt made us listless and dull conversationalists. By the time shortly thereafter when that acquaintanceship ran its course, it wasn’t as if Plane Guy was begging us for another shot, sobbing that he’d display at least 50% more homosexuality the next time if only we’d give him another chance.

To the contrary, I’m sure he was thinking, “Am I just imagining that those two dullards were a hoot on the plane?”

So, this morning Lynn told me his name had been Alfred. That didn’t sound right to me. More ethnic, I seemed to recall. “Alfredo?” she ventured. Yes! I’m pretty sure yes, anyway. And that might have been part of the lure—that we’d have not just a gay friend, but one whose first name suggested creamy deliciousness. Not that we personally wanted to get creamily delicious with him, you understand.

Anyway, the reason I’d asked Lynn his name is because something happened a few days ago that was tied to this whole straight-people-craving-gay-mascots thing, which is awful and embarrassing and smacks of bad sitcom plots, but which I’m owning up to it right here and now.

There’s this woman with whom I became acquainted through my job, because she wrote a very engaging book about her work as a physical therapist, and I asked her to write an essay about those experiences for the physical therapy-themed magazine for which I’m a writer/editor. She lives in the DC area. I’m being purposely vague with these details because of the embarrassment referenced above. While it’s unlikely she ever would read this post, and while I’m sure that the few regular readers of this blog who know some of the story already wouldn’t blab to her, you never know who could just happen to stumble upon Lassitude Come Home and expose my heterosexual foolishness in some frighteningly viral way.

The PT—that’s what physical therapists tend to call themselves, although apparently in Delaware in the 1970s it meant “prick tease,” per my loyal reader NY Friend—and I exchanged several friendly emails during the essay-writing process. She did a great job on the piece, for which she received no pay, but it did alert the 90,000-plus members of the American Physical Therapy Association to the fact that she has a book available for sale.

Although the book touches in only a minor way on the author’s sexuality, the fact that she’s gay does come out, if you’ll pardon the expression. And this, of course, intrigued me. It wasn’t the only thing that interested me about the author—I admired her work as a PT, and her ability to write so interestingly and often humorously about it—but there also was that gay-friend itch of mine that longed to be scratched. (An image that perhaps sends a sexually ambiguous message, but you know what I mean.)

Sure, the whole Alfredo thing, all those years ago, had ended with a whimper, not a bang. But that situation had been a three-way with a guy, while this would be one-one-one with a dyke, and … oh my God, enough with the double entrendres! Suffice it to say, I had reasons to think this relationship could work. Both of us write, after all. Our senses of humor jibed well over email. She digs women. Me, too! Et cetera.

So, I proposed that we meet in person. She was game. We met for lunch in Bethesda on one of my Fridays off. But everything was off from the get-go. The conversation was strained from beginning to end. I think we both were trying too hard. She wanted to impress this editor guy who gives good email, and I wanted to impress this PT, book author, and aficionado of same-sex-intercourse. Our jokes fell flat. Every inquiry seemed to yield a brief, inarticulate answer. Our parting “Let’s do this again” rang hollow.

Still, we did do it again. The next time was at a bar off the Maryland Beltway, nearer to where she lives with her partner, who’d become her wife since that lunch meeting in Bethesda. We talked about work, family (they have two kids), her love of swimming and her swim team, my running and my 50-states list. I think we both assumed that alcohol would liven things up and increase the comfort level. It didn’t work. Again, I don’t quite know what I’d expected. Ellen DeGeneres, maybe?

Not surprisingly, there was zero contact between us for a few months after that. But then, a few days ago, I was driving to work, listening to the debut CD by this Australian singer-songwriter named Courtney Barnett. The recording had made a few year’s best lists, so I’d decided to check it out. She can really rock, and her lyrics cleverly embrace life’s mundanities. (The CD’s title says it all: Sometimes I Sit and Think, and Sometimes I Just Sit.) There’s one song that made me think of the PT the very first time I heard it, because it’s set at a pool and involves swimming.

Then I read a short feature in Rolling Stone about Courtney Barnett, and learned, among other things, that she’s gay. Nothing in her lyrics had tipped me off, although, as it turned out, I’d missed something. I’m not always quick on the uptake when it comes to song meanings, but the swimming-pool song clearly is about how the singer has an unrequited crush on another person at the pool. Another swimmer who—I realized the next time I listened, driving to work that morning—is also a woman! The song is about a girl-on-girl crush!

This was the revelation I had during my morning commute—that this tune involves both swimming and lesbianism, and that I must, as soon as I got to the office, link the PT to a YouTube video of the song being performed, cut and paste the lyrics, and present it all in an email that would be much funnier than I had been in either of our face-to-face meetings.

With great excitement, I sent the email. Less than 10 minutes later, the PT responded.

“I LOVE IT! (I just posted it on my swim team’s Face book page.) Thanks for making me look cool and hip. And that CD title just makes me laugh.”

There was a bit more to the message, but those were the lines that mattered.

I’d done it! I’d had a genuine bonding moment with a Person of Gayness! I’d even come across, improbably enough, as someone who conversant in what’s “cool and hip”!

She asked me what I’d been up to, but she pointedly did not suggest that we get together.

You can bet that I didn’t bring it up, either, when I responded.

It was perfect.

Closing Credits

The other day, the HR department at my workplace sent an all-staff email conveying the sad and shocking news that a big name in our organization—the American Physical Therapy Association—and in the physical therapy profession in general, had died in a car accident in Costa Rica. He was a pugnacious former board member who tended to be a polarizing figure. My friend Maryann, who left my workplace a few years ago but used to cover a lot of board meetings and other association functions as a writer and editor, first texted me, upon receiving the news, that this man had been  “loved and hated,” then corrected herself, in a subsequent text, that “hated” had been too strong a word.

I knew what she meant. You hate people who murder your relatives or force you to quit your job rather than spend another day working for them. You don’t really hate people who are as passionate about your profession as you are. You especially don’t hate them if they’re more passionate about your profession than you are.

My dealings with this guy had been pretty limited. I’d interviewed him for articles a few times. What I remember is that he answered my questions and responded to my emails, which is pretty much everything I like in anyone I interview. What I don’t remember is anything I talked to him about. I have a lousy memory in general, but it’s particularly bad when it comes to stuff I write about for work. I’m all-in during the research, interviewing, outlining and writing process. I work hard to ensure that my articles are accessible, useful and well-written. But it’s my job, as opposed to my life. Which is why, once each story has been put to bed—once it’s been published and my interaction with it is done—I forget pretty much everything about it. I’m astonished sometimes when I reread a piece I wrote just a year or two ago, sometimes favorably so and other times not. They seem either far too smart for me to have written them, or, more rarely but quite depressingly, far too careless.  

Anyway, I checked back yesterday on the tribute page my employer had set up for Mr Recently Deceased. There were many, many tributes. I read for several minutes, then scrolled down to the bottom to see how long that would take. I kept scrolling, and scrolling. For a while it seemed like one of those deals on Yahoo News where you never get to the end because it adds yesterday’s celebrity blurbs and disaster roundups, then those of the day before that. (To the last syllable of recorded time, as Shakespeare might have said of the bottomless nature of gossip about the Kardashians.)

Suffice it to say, this guy was well loved by a whole lot his peers. And surely not hated by many. Not hate-hate, anyway. “That’s nice,” I thought as I scanned the tributes. I’m on the fence about the afterlife, but I feel pretty certain that the deceased aren’t sitting on a cloud somewhere reading posthumous tributes through their Earth-vision goggles. I always find strange those paid blurbs in the obituary section of the newspaper in which the deceased is addressed directly by the family and assured how much he or she has been missed by Mom and Uncle Fred over the course of the past two, five or 10 years. If there is an afterlife, how much of it is spent, I have to wonder, reading the small type at the back of the Metro section?

No, what I was thinking was, that’s nice for the dead guy’s family, to know how highly people thought of their son, brother, father, husband, whatever. I know nothing about this particular dead man’s personal life. Maryann texted me something about there having been another guy in the car, who was injured in the accident. She called that guy by his first name, and clearly thought I’d recognize the name and know what his relationship with the deceased had been. Had Mr Recently Deceased been gay, then? I hadn’t a clue, and I couldn’t care less—except for the fact that it speaks well of APTA if the guy felt comfortable being “out” as a board member and a prominent voice of the profession.

Less than 24 hours after the email from HR, I received the news in an email on my home PC that my favorite movie theater will be closing at the end of this month. That news hit me hard, even though the only shocking thing about it was that the tiny, rather shabby triplex of theaters near Georgetown had lasted for four and a half years in a competitive DC marketplace that increasingly is offering bigger, flashier alternative venues in which to view the kinds of quirky indie films, thoughtful foreign movies and probing documentaries that have been West End Cinema’s stock in trade. The short message from “Josh” on the email cited “business realities.” A subsequent article in the Washington Post’s Weekend section revealed his last name—Levin—and added a few quotes and details about the “radical changes” in the “exhibition landscape” that had occurred since the venue’s debut in the fall of 2010.

I loved going to West End and had a whole routine around it. I knew where and when to park in Georgetown so as not to get a ticket—most times. I always went to matinees—I hate crowded theaters—and I liked walking past the fancy hotels along M Street NW to get to the theaters at the corner of 23rd. It made me feel very cosmopolitan, somehow, even though I was just passing through. One of the two same guys always was there, taking tickets and serving popcorn and checking the heat in the dumpy boxlike spaces (more like projection rooms than “theaters”). They were low-budget jacks of all trades. Josh must’ve been one of them.. I never felt comfortable making conversation with him or the other guy. But I like to think I was recognized, and my patronage appreciated.

Most recently, I saw the wonderful Belgian film Two Days, One Night there, and some of the Oscar nominees for Best Short Film: Documentary. I almost always came solo, but a few months ago Lynn accompanied me to a documentary about a pioneer of yoga in the United States. Determined to see all eight best picture nominees before last month’s academy awards, I saw several at West End.

It was a comfortable place. I prefer sitting up close in theaters so I don’t have a sea of jabbering heads in front of me. At West End, the screens were small enough that there was no danger of my eyes getting lost in enlarged pixels. I sometimes sat in the very first row.

The juxtaposition of these two deaths—the board member’s and the theater’s—struck me immediately, and has been on my mind for the past few days. For a roughly equal amount of time, I’ve felt like I wanted to blog about it but have wondered what my “angle” should be. I’m now nearing the end of this post without quite having come to a conclusion.

I in no way mean to minimize the death of the board member—whose name, by the way, was Steve Levine, and who no doubt was a great man in his professional sphere in additional to being a comfort and joy to his intimates. I am saying that I’ll miss West End way more than the frankly not at all that I’ll miss Steve, but that is all context and is absolutely nothing personal. Part of me thinks I ought to pay tribute to West End on its Facebook page, in the manner that APTA members paid tribute to Steve on the associaton’s dedicated page, except that I still think Facebook is a stupid time-suck and I refuse to join it.

Perhaps this is trite, but if there’s a common thread here, it’s that if someone or something truly touches you, there’s never a good time to see it die. It’s always too soon, and it’s always irreplaceable. All the more so if it’s pugnacious and if it seemed to delight in fighting the good fight. Especially then.         

Progress Report

It’s about a month and a half into 2015 now, and fulfillment of my new year’s resolutions is at a standstill after having gotten off to a heady start.

“Welcome to the world,” you say. “Everybody resolves to lose weight, eat better, read all the great novels, etc, but nobody ends up doing it.”

Except, I long ago stopped setting my sights that high.

Well, I don’t really need to lose pounds in the first place, because I’ve been obsessive-compulsive about maintaining my weight since I was in my 20s. But, as much as Lynn would love for me to stop competing for the superlative of Worst Vegetarian Diet Ever, I have every intention of continuing to guzzle Diet Mountain Dew and cap every workday lunch with an extra-large chocolate Tootsie Roll Pop from 7-Eleven (No fat, less than 100 calories, and  a week’s supply of sugar!). Read the great novels? I made the mistake of posting on this blog a few years ago a book-reading goal that I came nowhere near meeting, and War and Peace wasn’t even on it. (This was one of those instances in which having an infinitesimal readership proved to be a very good thing. Only one person called me out with a “How’s that workin’ out?” email.)

This year I decided to limit my resolutions—with a few notable exceptions—to completing niggling tasks that I just never get around to doing, or that I irrationally put off. It was a new and viable approach that kicked off like gangbusters during the first week in January, when I rode a Montgomery County Ride-On Bus to the Friendship Heights Metro station and added an app to my iPhone. (Those are two different things.)

I’d gotten out of the habit of riding the county bus a few years ago, and then, over the course of time, I’d managed to convince myself that everything had probably gotten too complicated, in my absence, for me ever to figure it out. Because this is how I think—this is how I am. Did the buses really take SmartTrip cards now?  Had our local bus route changed? Was the terminus by the Metro station in the same place where it used to be? Etc, etc. I’d even gotten parking tickets a couple of times in DC for lingering past two hours on neighborhoods streets while watching movies in nearby theaters—just because I wouldn’t go online to update myself on Ride-On’s current procedures.

Well, what do you know? I used my SmartTrip card that day last month to pay my fare, leaving from the same stop as always near my house and arriving at the same old terminus near Metro. And it seems that all of the bus schedules are helpfully posted online! I didn’t even need one of those printed-out route schedules from Ride-On’s display at the Metro station. (I’m not even sure those displays still exist. I haven’t looked.)

So, next, the app. I hadn’t added a new app to my phone in probably a year because I’d forgotten how one does that. While I was drafting my new year’s resolutions, this struck me as frankly asinine. I asked Lynn what our “Apps Store” password was, found what I was looking for, and soon had a shiny new app on my smartphone. Voila! Another resolution met.

But that’s where my new year’s progress stalled. Next on my list was one word: “Coins.” My dressing area downstairs in our house is littered with overflowing containers of various shapes and sizes that all are packed with loose change. The big one, which I filled first, primarily holds pennies, but there’s a lot of silver in most of the other ones. There’s no telling what the cumulative amount of cash is—much less than a fortune but considerably more than the cost of a few movie tickets. It's kind of a moot point, though, because the money is not being used. It, rather, is a sprawling eyesore that irritates me every time I look at it.

Back in the old days, I actually enjoyed rolling pennies into wrappers, writing my account number on the outside, and bringing the rolls of 50 to my bank in a shoe box. It was fun, walking in with a tidied mountain of near-worthless zinc or copper (or whatever pennies are made of these days) and walking out with 20 or 30 dollars of real greenback currency. But my coin tsunami now far exceeds a shoe box’s capacity. For all I know, too, banks now refuse to accept penny rolls for obscure reasons that may be linked to Homeland Security.

The thing is, though, that my bank doesn’t offer those coin machines that helpfully convert customers’ loose change into paper money without the financial institution demanding a cut of the total. While I’m not averse to using a CoinStar machine in a grocery store—sure, they take a percentage, but what good are the coins doing me now?—I worry obsessively about the whole thing. Kind of the way I’d worried about the Ride-On bus.  I haven’t yet been able to force myself even to read the instructions on the machine, for fear I’ll find them too complicated. I also envision having someone standing directly behind me, waiting impatiently for me to finish. I worry to distraction about all the noise I’ll make, and the undue attention I’ll draw to myself. I wonder how many coins I should bring with me on that first trip, and how long feeding X number of them into the machine will take while I’m making all that racket.

Lynn tries to calm me, in the manner that one would a 5-year-old. She says, reassuringly,“We’ll go over to Harris Teeter one day and check it all out.” Which is sweet, and nice. And I know that she’s right. We would figure it out—and then, slowly but surely, my mounds of coins would disappear, and I’d have more “real” money in my pocket or bank account, or wherever I choose to place it.

But that hasn’t happened yet, somehow. I still dread the noise and the instructions. Does the machine give you cash, or a receipt that you then must bring to a cashier at the grocery store? How does it all work? Aaahhh! In the meantime, every morning, when I come downstairs to dress, I encounter an unruly army of Abes, Toms, FDRs and Georges, all sitting there in their containers, vexing me.

So, the baseball season’s coming up. Pitchers and catchers report to spring training in, like, a week. Which brings to mind two other seemingly simple check-off items on my resolution list: Nats Rewards and StubHub.

Because I’m a longtime Washington Nationals partial season ticket holder, I'm entitled to various “rewards” on the computerized card that I barely understand well enough to annually load my 20 game tickets onto. If I were to take full advantage of these additional rewards, I’d at the very least earn an excellent seat at one additional game per season. I know this because friends of mine have done it. It can’t be that hard to figure out. But I’ve just sort of psyched myself out about it, as I tend to do. I’ve convinced myself that it’s too difficult to so much as attempt. I really need get over this.

StubHub is a similar thing. Millions of people every day use this “fan exchange” site to buy and sell tickets to baseball games and other events at good prices. But I don’t really know much about it, and I worry that I’ll be stymied by an account that someone set up for me once, that may somehow prevent me from entering new information. Or something like that. (My fears often are less than fully baked.) Anyway, I really should check out StubHub before I next go to an Orioles game at Camden Yards in Baltimore. Why, perhaps, armed with my reasonably priced StubHub ticket, I could sit nearer the field and the Bird mascot! Wouldn’t that be awesome? Sure it would.

There are a few things on my resolution list that aren’t as easily actionable. For instance, I need to add a state, if not two, to my running list this year. (Actually, first I need to check the list on my office computer to see how many states I have to go. I’m sure it’s under 20, but how many  under? I am 56 years old, soon to be 57! Time’s a-wastin’.) I’m thinking that I can fly to a corner of one state I need that’s near another state I need, so that I can kill two running states on one trip. But this will take some planning.

One item on my resolution list that’s fairly easily actionable but is more at the traditional procrastinator’s level of onerous is clearing out this drawer into which I’ve thrown, over the past several years, pretty much anything of a size that could fit in a drawer. For example, I know—although they’re certainly no longer visible—that there are “valuable” newspapers in there commemorating Barack Obama’s inauguration in January 2009 as America's first African American president. I put the word valuable in quotes because, of course, these utterly unprotected materials are dry and yellowed by now—about as fresh and vital as our beleaguered president himself looks, well into his second and final term as chief executive.

The problem with cleaning out drawers that evoke a compact episode of the reality series Hoarders is that if you do, you’ve then got to figure out what do with all that crap. Not everything merits tossing or donating, but if you keep stuff, it’s got to be stowed somewhere. We live in a small house that already has available no attic space and a packed garage that never could house a car.

So, I guess there’s a backhanded argument to be made for further putting off the drawer-clearing. Perhaps that’ll reappear on the 2016 resolutions list. Ideally not to be joined there by “Coins,” “Nats Rewards” and “StubHub.”

If I’d just set aside my fears and dive in, I conceivably could meet all three of those goals in a single day. But the day may have been back in January.      

Dying To Be Heard

There was a fascinating story in the Washington Post Magazine recently about a 66-year-old American, living in Japan, who e-mailed an array of journalists all over the globe, announcing his imminent suicide. He despaired of the fact that the world had ignored his blog and his self-published books, and decided he’d rather die than live on in what he felt was unmerited obscurity.

He followed through, too. Although some of the journalists to whom he’d written tried their best to thread together clues and stop him from carrying out his planned self-elimination—the Post reporter, interestingly, did not do so, feeling equal parts emotionally blackmailed, powerless, and suspicious of a hoax—the man made good on his promise. He jumped off a building. ("Take splat, cruel world!" Sorry.)

The deceased’s name is/was Dennis Williams. The irony, of course, is that he’s far more famous now than he ever was in life. The article made clear that Williams hoped the publicity surrounding his demise would call posthumous, appreciative attention to this writings. Which seems quite unlikely, given people’s short attention spans (the suicide already is old news), the vast competition for readers, and the fact that, in the Post reporter’s estimation, Williams’ obscurity was well-deserved.

Here’s how reporter Cynthia McCabe summed up Williams’ writing—and the weighty ideas about which he felt people should sit up and take notice—after having scrolled through a number of his blog entries: “Winding tomes about philosophy and nature and his view of the world that were articulate but uninteresting. He aimed for thought-provoking but clunkily landed just short of eye-roll-inducing.”

I’ve made no attempt to seek out any of Williams’ writings. I already know what articulate but uninteresting, and lamely “deep,” looks and sounds like. I’ve produced plenty of such material myself. In fact, one of the lesser reasons I want my octogenarian parents to downsize from their two-story suburban home—the biggest being because my brother and I don’t want to have to sift through 40-plus years of accumulated crap—is that there still may be, in various boxes, sheets of poetry I wrote in my teens. Which was a time of my life when apparently, given the melodrama of those lines, I was a young girl who was an acolyte of Sylvia Plath (speaking of suicides).

In this blog, I’ve seldom striven for “thought-provoking,” choosing instead to focus on subjects that interest me more and require fewer trips to the thesaurus—such as serial killers, celebrity deaths, annoying manifestations of pop culture, and my love-hate (mostly hate) relationship with technology. (Pause for an aside: Every time I prepare to post something to Lassitude Come Home, I fear that my host site will have “advanced” its procedures beyond my dim understanding. Honestly, the only thing I know how to do is flow unadorned text into a template. Nobody else is that self-limiting anymore. Yet this is the way that I live my life. The other week a colleague pointed at the old-school, transistor radio-sized tape recorder I had plugged into my land line to record a telephone interview and asked, “Really? They still make those?” Well, yes, the last time I looked on Amazon. At which time I stockpiled a few of them, just to be on the safe side.)

Where was I? Oh, I was noting that I, unlike Dennis Williams, don’t kid myself that I have anything profound to tell the world. Still, I must admire his industry. Sure, it’s easier to amass a library of writings when you love your own insights as much as Williams apparently loved his. Still, though, it takes considerable dedication and time. I don’t remember if the article mentioned it, but Williams presumably had a job and other daily obligations to attend to. He was married to a Japanese woman for many years. He may well have had hobbies beyond grandiosity and self-absorption. And the man had to eat. Maybe he rolled his own sushi. That strikes me as labor-intensive. I am not nearly so dedicated to my writing.

In fact, this is my first blog post since last November. It now is late January. The gap of two-plus months suggests a few things—some of them good, some of them bad.

Taking the bad first—I’m a glass half-empty kinda guy—the long hiatus suggests a lack of discipline on my part, an enduring inability to address this space as a place for fun rather than work, and possibly a certain lack of imagination.

On the other hand, though (and yes, I know I don’t have another hand; that gag never gets old for me), my long writing silences the past few years also establish me as sort of an anti-Dennis Williams—not to pile on the man—in the sense that I clearly don’t believe the world would benefit in some meaningful way from more-frequent musings from me. I’m also the un-Williams in that no one ever need worry about getting a suicide e-mail from me. It’s not like I have a huge body of work that’s being ignored by the masses. I’ve written zero books, self-published or otherwise. Yes, it does irk me that the other, younger, Eric Ries—the startups-guru hotshot out in California, about whom I’ve griped before—renders me un-findable on Google because he hogs all of “our” search results. But hey, you can’t win if you don’t play. California Eric Ries hustles and gets himself Out There. I’m seldom even In Here, writing this obscure blog.

In short, while I’m just as overlooked, if not more so, than Dennis Williams, I haven’t tried nearly as hard as he did to be viewed in the first place. He clearly was bitter and frustrated by the lack of attention. If I’m at all bitter or frustrated, it’s only insofar as no one has magically plucked me from obscurity and handed me a fun and/or lucrative writing gig—like working for the Onion or writing a memoir over the generous course of, say, 10 years—without my having to do anything other than be willing to be plucked from obscurity. (My dream scenario is that one of my dozen readers will forward one of my better posts to someone influential and/or with deep pockets, who will exclaim, “Good Lord, we simply must have him!”)

So, anyway, I think we’ve established that I’m not a suicide risk. Not for any literary reason, anyway. (I do reserve the right to off myself if I’m suffering from a horribly painful disease, or if yet another Bush becomes president of the United States.) Still, I find this whole question of the push-and-pull of self-expression and fame very interesting. How often do we write about things organically—when it’s like eating or breathing? Is the motivation always, on some level, to be read and appreciated?

I mean, Williams insisted that it wasn’t about him, it was about his ideas. But how do you divorce the two? He certainly couldn’t. He equated indifference toward his ideas with rejection of him. Which, in turn, precipitated his suicide. (At least that's the way the article presents things. Williams had prostate cancer when he died—a seemingly important detail that nevertheless is made to seem irrelevant.)

There was a great quote in the Washington Post piece by Ron Charles, the newspaper’s book editor. I read it aloud to Lynn because it struck me as so nicely-stated and succinctly true.

“There are more people writing than ever who are desperate for attention, and we just don’t have that much attention to give,” Charles wrote. “No matter how rich or educated we become, we have only the 24 hours for each of us. And with everybody promoting themselves on every possible social network, all of us so desperate for eyeballs, myself included, with all of us living and dying by our click history, [Williams’ suicide] is kind of an extreme and terrifying example of ‘Why aren’t you looking at me?’”

There’s so much to chew on in that one paragraph. I find exhausting the cacophony of voices that scream out from our ever-growing multitude of platforms—even as I refuse to engage in Facebook or Twitter, for fear that doing so would devour my last minute of free time, and possibly my last ounce of sanity. Yet I, too, crave attention. I want to be read. I want to be heard. I want to be complimented. Perhaps not to quite the extent that some people—many people—do. Certainly less than Dennis Williams did.

Part of that is simply human nature. But part of it, I think, is fueled by the breadth and volume of the voices now vying for our attention. Quantity doesn’t equal quality. The more voices there are in cyberspace, the more certain we are that our own voice is smarter, funnier, better modulated. And surely it is, within the context of many voice-to-voice comparisons. It’s frustrating that these inferior voices are being heard while we are not. But it all gets back to what Ron Charles said: There’s only so much time in the day, so much bandwidth that any of us can access.

I mean to post material to this blog more often that I have been. A lot of things interest me enough to riff on, as my daily electronic correspondence tends to attest. But I seldom take the time or effort to translate those observations into blog posts. It needn’t and shouldn’t be that hard to do. I hope to be better about that in (the rest of) 2015.

In the meantime, though, I do have one gift to offer the journalists of the world: No moral quandary about how to handle my suicide note.