RDH - Nothing Whatsoever to Say

Absolutely Nothing Whatsoever to Say

February 9, 2007

You should know, to begin with, that I have trouble typing the word "whatsoever." I leave out the first e. It's one of the very few words I have trouble with.* I decided nonetheless to feature that word—and prominently—in the title to today's piece or article or essay or random notes.

Reading the newspapers today I was reminded that heavy women basketball players who excel at the college or professional level tend to be surprisingly indifferent to or even proud of their size. The baggy uniforms help. I know that when I've been too heavy nothing solved the problem like a nice big pair of baggy sweatpants mated to an oversized t-shirt. It's hard to unthink the idea that when flesh bulges and dimples and rolls or folds it looks less good than smooth flesh pulled taught over muscle or bone. The dominant idea right now seems to be that the human form, so-called, is prettiest when there is some evidence of the structure within. Perhaps we do not want to appear too obviously to be no more than glorified, fluid-filled sacks.

I also noted something else, but I've since forgotten.

I'm almost certain that somebody somewhere exploded for such-and-such numbers of points in a game or in a quarter or a half, or dished up an impressive number of assists—a statistic that, when Larry Bird and Magic Johnson were playing, was more interesting than it is today—but I didn't do my normal morning perusal of NBA.com.

Also, some more deaths in Iraq were reported. Some of the daily highway deaths in America and elsewhere around the world were no doubt reported too, but the coverage in such cases tends to be rather local. Besides, such deaths have become routine and ought, perhaps, to be included among those that are attributed to natural causes.

I looked at slide shows of fashion models. Many of them were very angry looking and very beautiful. If I looked like that I, too, would probably develop some sort of protective scowl.

Someone suggested that I tone down the preachiness in my articles. I said I'd try to figure out the problem and think about fixing it. This is the first fruit of those efforts.

I came across several reports noting that public apologies and promises to seek help are inevitable from role models who screw up. I already knew that. I have always assumed, on the other hand, that writers are an exception to the rule.

What else? I read part of a blog. It was very happy with itself and had many comments from people who were happy with the blogger and happy with themselves that they were happy with it. I agreed with many of the opinions expressed therein, but the whole thing left me with a terrible taste in my mouth. In fact, I had to go straight to bed with a good book, even though it was the middle of the day. I don't see how people can be so fiercely proud of the fact that they are smart and reasonable, as if that protects any of us from anything.

This isn't a blog. I don't solicit comments, though you might have seen that I do provide a rudimentary means of contacting me. I may, however, at some point, put up fake comments from people who are actually me. And I may plant fake statistics about this site. That would be boatloads of fun.

I'm a reluctant computer user, but I love to solve problems, and I fully understand that computers are entirely unbending and not at all emotional. Slamming a mouse on the desk, for example, might help if there's a hardware problem, but the computer's software will be entirely unmoved by—absolutely dead to—your outburst.† I'm not the type, in other words, ever to get angry about glitches or obstacles, though I love to watch others get angry at their own computers. I hide my amusement (just as I tend to swallow my anger and frustration, a trait for which I should perhaps seek some therapy) and offer to help.

Instead of Subaru . . . Instead of Subaru, Smugaroo. Yes, they are great cars. I just wish that Subaru buyers didn't invariably self-select on the basis of their common sense and ACLU-aligned political views.

A columnist in a newspaper assured me that five megapixels should be enough for the amateur photographer. I already knew that. I use three and a half—thanks to a used Nikon—and I'd show you some photos that I've taken and which are pretty good, but that's not what I do.

Ford, obviously at wits' end, plans to bring back the Taurus.

*I also have trouble with the word "moreover" and in almost the same way; invariably, I'll leave out the first e. (I tried to come up with the most useless thing to add to my entirely empty observation about "whatsoever"—and, as some of you will have guessed, if I almost succeeded with the explanation of "moreover" with which this footnote begins, I've absolutely succeeded with the present parenthetical apology.)

†Though I suppose some sort of motion detection could be engineered into your mouse so that your computer, whenever the threshold for a banging motion has been crossed, could at least attempt to console you. ("You seem to be upset. Perhaps I could be of some assistance. Begin troubleshooting here.")