I win. Also, I am made of fail. It must be a Monday
Saturday night, during our marathon phone conversation, the boy said something about strutting and fretting our hour upon the stage. I said "look at you with your Shakespeare references!" And he said, "I thought that was Emerson." I said that I was pretty sure it was Shakespeare, but I couldn't swear that it wasn't Emerson and let it go. At least, he thinks I let it go. All day yesterday, I walked around saying to myself that the line continued "it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing," and arguing about whether it really could have been Emerson when I was about 99 percent sure it was Shakespeare. Also, if it were a transcendentalist, it sounds a little more like Thoreau than Emerson. So I looked it up and I win I win I win! From Macbeth. Which I've never read and still can quote. Ha!
Rode my bike to work in a day right out of Pleasantville. Seriously--- the sky was really more Technicolor than could be believed, and the scents of the trees were all come-hither, the creek nearly out of its banks the whole way--- unbelievably wonderful.
But then I got an e-mail from one of my columnists, in which I reminded him that his column was "do" in less than two weeks. I hate that kind of obvious mistake.
Rode my bike to work in a day right out of Pleasantville. Seriously--- the sky was really more Technicolor than could be believed, and the scents of the trees were all come-hither, the creek nearly out of its banks the whole way--- unbelievably wonderful.
But then I got an e-mail from one of my columnists, in which I reminded him that his column was "do" in less than two weeks. I hate that kind of obvious mistake.