Somebody remind me…

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For all my efficiency and hyper-organizational tendencies, I am a champion time killer. I procrastinate prodigiously. Fortunately I seem to work best under pressure–my best papers were printed out just as I was dashing out the door for class, and no work projects ever satisfy me quite as much as the ones that get wrapped up with mere minutes to spare. All of this begs the question, though: how in the hell did I waste time ten years ago?

1997: I lived alone in my studio apartment with no computer and (gah!) no cable television. In my office I was a daring revolutionary because I had starting using that “Web Thing” (in the words of the woman at the next desk) to do some research and book travel. Otherwise, my desktop was parked firmly in Word/Excel/Outlook land.

What did I ever do with myself? How did I ever procrastinate effectively without blogs to read, 182 channels to surf, Netflixed movies in my mailbox, an unbelievable backlog of programs waiting on my DVR, and the unbridled consumerist joy that is Sephora.com conveniently available for my window shopping needs at 1:30 a.m.? And how did I feed my dirty mind and masturbation habit without so much as a dial-up connection?

Thank goddess for progress; otherwise, I might have accomplished something productive this week instead of all this crap:

• Obsessively checking my blog stats. I got Fleshbot-ted again, this time for my most recent entry. Sorry for all the sleep you lost over the years, former neighbors, but your insomnia got me lots of blog traffic–and the thrill of being read and recommended by the great and powerful Oz Jefferson.
• Watching way too much television. The new season has been killing me, not because the volume of new shows I’m interested in is that great–there are only four (Chuck, Reaper, Dirty Sexy Money, and Pushing Daisies) that I have been watching so far–but because of the convergence of the new season with the baseball playoffs, football season, the tail end of a couple of cable series, and Ken Burns’ The War on PBS. If my DVR could talk it would beg me to consider radio. Or therapy.
• Geeking out. Were you aware that today was the premiere of the 27th season of This Old House? I was shamefully excited when I woke up this morning.
• Crushing on Tom Ford. For me, loving Tom Ford is an old habit, and comes so naturally: I love menswear and beautiful tailoring, I’m fascinated by human anatomy, I appreciate anyone who is so openly appreciative of sex, and ohbytheway–have you SEEN the man? Anyway, I love this new interview with him on Out.com. You must read it, and you must scroll through the pictures. That is one foine 46-year-old ass…and I’m pretty sure three hot men in a shower is a universal sign of good luck.
• Hating baseball, then loving it. Fortunately, the hatred only lasted for about 30 minutes after my Cubbies finished gagging away their season. Once I took a deep breath, cursed a little on the exhale, and checked mlb.com for the start time of the next game, I was interested again. And by the time the Yankees got their goddamned doors blown off two days later, I had regained my will to live. That’s why I love the game–it’s a thirty-family soap opera; the season is so long and they play so many games that the plotlines are endless. Unfortunately, loving it hurts sometimes, and not in the good way. A prime example of which is…
• Hating Dane Cook. I wholeheartedly agree with the writer of this article, with one exception: the cuddly, sensitive, conflicted, gay Satan from South Park would be an enormous upgrade from Cook. Can anyone tell me why he’s famous? He’s not funny, can’t act, isn’t especially smart or charming, and is at best only borderline generically handsome. The only reason I should be subjected to his picture is if he wins Celebrity Boxing or fucks Paris Hilton on camera and lives to tell about it. The sight of his face pisses me off almost as much as Dick Cheney’s. Great choice to center a multi-million dollar ad campaign around, folks…

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