Idiot man said this to me yesterday (defending himself against the Spanish language�which he refuses to take because he doesn�t want to, in his words, talk to the damned Mexicans): Name just one Spanish author.

Luckily I was able to gather a meager few of my wits (such as they are) about me and immediately reply: Sandra Cisneros, Gary Soto, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, (and in a really horrified, shocked, what the fuck is wrong with you voice) Miguel Cervantes.

I am chagrined to think of all the names I could have said but didn�t. I should have been able to name names for an hour straight just to bore him to death with his own ignorance. I realize now that by �Spanish author� he meant �Mexican� and so for the edification of all, let me link to this Dictionary of Mexican writers, available in both Spanish and English.

This morning when I woke up, my alarm clock read 9:55. I�m supposed to be at work at 8 am. Today I was in charge of bringing cheese and crackers to a birthday party which was to begin at 9:30 am. Panicked and half awake, I flew out of bed and immediately called work. I got the answering machine, which I thought odd. I did not leave a message. Instead I turned on the radio to find out the time. Because, you see, my alarm clock is the only clock in the house and my watch is still AWOL. The time? 6:30 am. Yes. The clock, which had been set for the appropriate time when I went to bed was off by 3 hours and 27 minutes. No, friend, the power had not gone off in the night. And I'm pretty confident that Basho has not yet acquired an opposable thumb.