post-dated wise
We just got home from the big inventory night at the store, and it's now 1:00 on the 25th, but to preserve the beautiful uniformity of our little calender to the left there I'm going to post-date this entry to the 24th. And to justify that decision, and offer the only content my dead-tired brain can manage, I present my theory of when days actually start and end:
See, clocks and calendars and things aren't able to take context into consideration; they need to pick a point to switch from one day to another, a point that applies to everyone, and it doesn't matter what you may be doing at the time. But we as humans need not bow blindly to their fiat in all cases, and this one here presents a prime example. We haven't gone to bed yet; clearly, then, it is not yet tomorrow. 'Wait, Dan!' I hear you saying. 'What does that mean when folks stay up for three days straight?' Besides suggesting that such a thing should never, ever be attempted, I say that we have another, far more obvious marker of the new day than the chiming of the pedantic clock: and that, of course, is the sunrise.
So where does that leave us? It's simple. A new day starts when you wake up from your night's sleep or at sunrise, whichever comes first (one proviso being that if you wake up from your night's sleep and then fail to stay awake past the next sunrise--if, that is, you were sleeping during the nighttime hours--that doesn't count as a new day). With that in mind, I see no moral objection to cheating a little with Moveable Type's dates. Which I will now do.
pop
So you read about the bath soaps, yeah. Recently, though, I've begun to notice something else somewhere along those lines, yet more insidious in its effects: this time the problem isn't fruity soap but soapy pop melodies. Er... if, that is, 'soapy' has any meaning in that context. Really they're just plain pop melodies, but that turn of phase isn't clever at all, nor catchy.
Now the tunes, on the other hand, are catchy, as per order, and the last few days I've been catching them alot more than I would like. We can't wholly blame Leah for this, though, because since I control the primary means of music-listening in our abode, I usually get to select the day's tunes and make her listen to my noisy squonking non-pop. Which she takes very well, I must say, with nary a complaint. So she's entirely innocent in the pollution of my brain by commercial radio's sugary ditties.
No, the problem (this week anyways) lies in the amount of time I spent at that store, where Leah is in the majority as far as musical tastes are concerned, and where pop music over the store's speakers is the norm. And then, since I was working all those hours listening to pop, I was unable to be home listening to whatever else I usually listen to; and the end result is, fragments of two or three tunes took up permanent residence in my head over the past couple days. What were they, you ask? Well, I prefer not to relive those particular memories (it's dangerous, if nothing else: haven't you ever heard of a relapse?!), but I seem to recall Hilary Duff's song about 'Let the rain fall down' featured prominantly, as did Justin Timberlake's song about breaking up with Britteny. Which I can't think of the title to right now, nor the tune thank goodness.
Yes, a little pop has its place now and then, but my disposition simply can't handle it for exended periods of time. I'm like an aboriginal native as far as pop is concerned, or a newborn baby: all too suceptible due to my lack of exposure to the contagion. But thankfully, pop is unlike smallpox in that the recovery time is swift and nearly complete. Plus, no one ever said smallpox had a good beat, and I'm sure you'd be hard-pressed to dance to it.