It rather defeats the purpose of placing one's clock radio across the room—so as to actually, you know, force one to wake up in the morning—when that same clock radio comes with a remote, and can be turned off from bed.

The Dad: "It's not respectable any more to be a sexist, or a racist, or a homophobe, in the working world. But did you know that a lot of people out there are circadists?"

The Joy: "Oh, believe me—I've noticed. And that is why you and I are both better off owning our own businesses. That and being profoundly weird, of course."

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"I have doctors who return my phone calls, and lawyers who return my phone calls. My son is a prick, and even he returns my phone calls.

So you might want to consider giving me a break."

Okay. I call him. "What's cooking?" I ask.
"Well, I'm getting my car lubed, and the sky is clear, and it's a beautiful day here in the San Fernando Valley. What's happening with you?"
"I'm sick. Can I go now?"

Okay. I didn't say that. But I thought it.

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. . . on The Curse of Short Men.

It applies to women, too. Though I get more heightism from other women than I do from men. There is this weird dynamic in which tall women feel entitled to "look down" on shorter women (figuratively, as well as literally), and treat them as if they were children.

Men, on the other hand, pretend to take short chicks seriously on an intellectual level; presumably, this is because this gives them a safe vantage point from which to stare at one's boobs.

Of course, there are the men who decide that a short chick with a figure right out of the 1930s is probably not much of a thinker. These people make me giggle, and provide great fodder for character studies.

Watch out for novelists with Napoleon complexes, okay?

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But what's with all the search engine shit? And why are people looking for "Grinch sweater"? Where the fuck, BTW, did they find it on my blog?

Good to know people are out there looking for Jan Libourel; the man should really have his own site, BTW.

The last time I saw Jan, it was at a memorial service for the great Dave Arnold, gunwriter and true gentleman of a type they simply don't make any more.

Jan was trying to bait the rest of us, as usual. He expressed his "admiration" for Osama bin Laden. "All that fortune," he sighed. "Such a wealthy family. He could have spent it all on wine, women, and song, but instead he chose to take on the world's one remaining superpower."

I used to rise to these things, years ago—before I got old and tired and jaded.

"Yes," I agreed. "Osama has tremendous self-discipline. He's quite a man."

True, of course.

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