I am currently rereading C.S. Lewis' The Screwtape Letters, in which Screwtape, an upper level demon, instructs his nephew Wormwood on the finer points of temptation. It is an interesting premise, realized beautifully, but as I've been told before, I'm no C.S. Lewis. I couldn't figure out how to tempt a human soul to depravity. But it would be fun to create a lower level demon, let's call him Tapeworm, and think of ways to tempt humans to less egregious sins.

Letter #1

Dear Hardwood,

Your last letter has left me sorely despairing the future of the demonic realms. You leave so many opportunities for temptation unexploited. Did your patient not gaze with lust on the eclair in the company refrigerator? Was he not impressed by the vacancy of the break room? Why did he not eat his co-worker's tasty treat? Could it be that you, at that very moment, had your horns stuck in the oven on the 3rd ring? Perhaps you missed your chance to lead your man astray because you were poaching MY BAKED ALASKA! In the future, dear Hardwood, keep your mitts off because you are tempting me to KICK YOUR ASS.

Your devoted uncle,
Tapeworm

Pssst. It is almost Dr. Yakalumpf's birthday. She will be very, very old tomorrow.

She will be so old that children will mistake her for an immutable feature of the landscape, like Morla from The Neverending Story, whose home is the Shell Mountain somewhere in the deadly Swamps of Sadness.

She will be so old that God will phone to reminisce, asking "remember 10-43 of a second? That was totally awesome."

She will be so old that she'll forget things, and her internal monologues will begin to sound like this:

Now, where did I store those nuts for the winter?

I know they're around here somewhere...

Oh! Now I remember! I'm not a squirrel! I must be getting old...

Love,
Your Sister

(Who will be two years younger for eternity, for which she is eternally grateful.)

Just finished The Hound of the Baskervilles, and I learned a few things:

• The Baskervilles are a family, not a British mountain range (near the d'Urbervilles), as I heretofore believed.
• Watson is Holmes' BITCH.
• PLOT SPOILER: Applying phosphorus make-up to a dog's eyes and mouth was a realistic plot contrivance in 19aught1. Considering Scooby Doo, I guess it still might be.

'Course with a twist like that, the plot was spoiled from the get-go.

On the other hand, truly transcendental bog imagery. Boggerific.

I often wish I had a camera in my head so that I could tape things as I experience them. Usually, I wish this when I've just experienced something so patently ridiculous that I have become alone in the world with my knowledge of this utter ridiculosity. Like on Monday, when I went to North Bay, a retreat for...international play children (IPC). Here's the link:

www.northbayadventure.com

Well, as the IPC disembarked from their school buses, all the North Bay counselors (a rainbow- colored crew of post-college, pre-real job lookers with artfully tousled hair) gathered at the bottom of the bus steps and CLAPPED as the children emerged. Like "Woo hoo! You descended three steps! Woo hoo!" or more probably "Let's celebrate you! Being here now!"

Let's just say my amygdala almost stood up and walked out of that movie in my mind.

Things have been moving right along here in the chilly, outer reaches of the Petard-i-verse. Friday night, I made my way to Bethesda to visit dear Robin in his natural habitat. Saturday night, it was Wii rabbit craziness with SwD, A, the Birds, and Atlas. And today...I nearly finished In Cold Blood, which is heralded (by its own jacket, to be fair) as "yielding poignant insights into the nature of American violence."

I suppose I am bad at harvesting the yield of modern American classics, because thus far the book has only yielded me:

• A slightly improved understanding about how a man could make money from writing bad checks.
• The skeevy idea that Perry Smith, one of the murderers, must have been the spitting image of the Okie.
• A desperate desire to be excused from finishing the book; maybe a "time off for good behavior" kind of deal.

As for the nature of American violence, I have no deeper insights than when I began. Specifically that it is American and...violent.

Ruminations on the Snow Day

Funny how the SNOW DAY! dance is virtually identical to the Bangles' "Walk Like an Egyptian" dance. Ay oh way oh, ay oh way oh...

There is a sort of hair a Petard sprouts on a snow day...It's caused by a combination of dry winter air, hat head, and (let's face facts) Petards don't wash their hair on snow days.

No way.

Way oh way oh...

Today, I ranked the movie Capote on Netflix. (3 out of 5 stars for the interested. Acting skeevy well does not really counter the fact that you're acting skeevy.)

Based on my feedback, Netflix believes that I will love The OC: Season 2.

Now, I've seen The OC: Season 2, and I did love it.

Does this mean that there is reason somewhere behind it all? Hummm.

In the English language, there are few phrases as sweet as "2 hours late."

"I love you."

"Have my icing; it's too sweet for me."

"What do you want?"

"It's benign."

All of these are sweet.

But they're no "2 hours late."