old photos

It's Friday. I have absolutely no desire to go out. No, I take that back. I have no desire to go out considering my options. If, say, a Mark Ruffalo lookalike showed up at my door and said he wanted to take me to see a concert, feed me sushi and pour hot sake down my throat and then kiss me in the doorway of some alley, I would be very quick to jump into the shower and take him up on that offer. But, alas, that is not the case and I am going to be at home again tonight with my latest DVD's from Netflix (Sex and the City, Season 4, Disc Three and Coal Miner's Daughter: Collector's Edition) and my backlog of New Yorker magazines.

This is pathetic.

What is also pathetic is that apparently the part of my brain that had something to say and, therefore, blog, was apparently removed in a lobotomy that no one told me I had. It's not that I don't try. I read, I search, I find nothing that I feel the desire -- or in some instances -- the ability to comment upon.

The big thought of the morning, after reading the paper, was that my lily white liberal ass still can not get over the disproportionate number of black men under the age of 30 -- and often under the age of 20 -- who make appearances on The Washington Post obituary page. It's jarring, morning after morning, to see their faces there amidst the middle aged folks and the photo of some 97 year old women whose family chose to use the shot of her when she was young and beautiful and oblivious to the aches and pains of old age.