Wet Potatoes

It’s only 10:23 and I’m starting to write! The small victories count, the lead to the big ones. How did Mr. Numbers Guy become so touchy feely? Easy they aren’t mutually exclusive. I’m still Mr. Numbers Guy. Numbers and hard facts take precedence. I don’t make judgments based on feelings, but it’s irrational to ignore feelings. It’s irrational to think that people are always rational. I’ve never understood why that’s so difficult for people to understand. It’s something I have to radically accept for my own emotional well-being. Facebook is good at teaching the futility of arguing with people that have rejected rationality and choose their own facts.

I had another day where I didn’t leave the house. Today I’ll at least run over to the local supermarket. Something weird happen that I can’t explain. I bought a bag of russet potatoes. When I went to bake one yesterday they were all wet. I keep them in a cubbyhole away from everything. Is there a way for potatoes to spoil that leaves them wet? Did something somehow spill on them? I wasn’t taking any chances and threw them out. Good thing I had small white potatoes in the house, so I made salt potatoes again. I can’t complain about that, I love salt potatoes. It’s just that I love baked potatoes too. Sam knew what’s good.

Gollum gets it exactly wrong. Keep the fish, just give me the chips.

I wrote but didn’t record another edition of Gord’s Gold last night. It feels good to be writing and recording Gord’s Gold again. It’s like getting out of prison. I had a tough jailer, my brain. Recording is tougher as I can’t schedule it on my calendar. I have to do it when it gets quiet enough to record. Yesterday’s was the longest one I have written. It was on the Chicks with Dip’s new EP Stomping on Eggshells and I wanted to say something about each Chick that contributed. I know many of the musicians that I write about but not like I know the Chicks. I have spent quality time with each of them. They are the Wise Madness house band. I work hard not letting that affect my musical judgment. I won’t praise music that is not praiseworthy. I owe that much to My Gentle Readers and even more so to my integrity. When my opinion of a friend’s music is not high I follow my parents’ advice; if you have nothing nice to say don’t say anything at all.

I’m going to take a break to eat breakfast. We’ll see when I come back if I want to wade into politics.

I know you’ve been sitting on the edge of our seat waiting to hear what I ate. It was, drum roll please, matzoh brei to make your bubbe cry. It’s late October and I still have a few sheets of matzoh left from Pesach. The great thing about matzoh is that stale crackers don’t get stale. If you keep it in a sealed package it apparently lasts forever. This is why I always buy a five-pound box in the spring. If I had more room I might buy two. Next time I have matzoh brei with peanut butter. That’s much better than politics. I’m not angry at anyone. I had a dream the night before last where I unloaded on somebody and felt terrible as I was doing it. I don’t like to Hulk out though the temptation is there. I feel the siren call but know that I’ll end up crashing against the rocks if I heed them. Writing about breakfast is stopping my ears with wax.