Some

You know, life is either interminably short or interminably long, and I'm fairly certain that it's dependent upon the activity. Thus, we frail human creatures are unable to do everything that we'd like to do. I'd like to take up ice dancing and compete in the winter Olympics, but I fear I've run out of time. The closest I can get is dancing in the mirror with lil s looking at me quizzically while I accept the gold from a frowning eastern bloc judge.

While there are a myriad of things that have gone undone I'd like to focus on one of the main failures that has happened for a person of my ilk. Note, it was nice to read that mathematics are pretty much hard-wired into people. Ie, there is only so much that person can learn. You either got it or you don't. Anyhow, I'm talking about books, as usual. And, more specifically, the vast number of them that I haven't read.

1) Guns, Germs, and Steel by Jared Diamond.

Why? Because everyone was reading this book for two years. Though in retrospect you're not entirely sure that anyone else ever finished it because you've never heard a good conversation about the book.

Scene: It's mid-afternoon in Ocean City. The air is thick; white curtains billow in useless wind. Someone is in the kitchen talking about which recipe to cook. The debate is over two things that are almost entirely comprised of chocolate. I walk down the short hallway past wicker chairs to the shelf that holds Guns, Germs, and Steel. This is the year that I am going to conquer the book. I walk back down the short hallway ignoring a ball of white fur that is begging for some kind of food. I sit down on the couch melting between old cushions. The heavy weight of a good book rests against my chest.

This scene has taken place on at least three occasions. But then, something always happens. The interminable conversation about dessert is still going on and despite the sparking ideas being presented in the prologue it seems imperative that I mention to someone that either option is great, and that the worst option of all is to delay any further in preparing some sort of dessert from May or June of Martha Stewart's eating well. I try and coax S away from her spreadsheet and into the kitchen.

Option 2: Despite the sparking prose and interesting ideas someone picks up a tennis racket. "Do you want to play tennis?" Of course I want to play tennis. The body in motion is a beautiful thing. Well, not exactly beautiful when I rip yet another awkward backhand into the court in front of me where it dribbles into the net, but oh well.

Option 3: Someone mentions grilling or drinking wine. These are the sorts of things that take precedence over sparkling prose and interesting ideas. I remember reading an author recently who said that two glasses of wine made him a much better writer but that he could never stop at two. I've found the same sort of math to be true in awkward social situations as I remember quickly downing two at my wedding before making the rounds to tables full of people that I may or may not have known. Anyhow, the point is that Jared Diamond has nothing on wine or burgers.

Scene: The sun fades behind a thin layer of clouds. Small black birds dart from the roof of the condo into swarms of insects. The bay is calm. Edges of the water slap softly against the dock. Across the water I watch a family play a reasonable game of volleyball. The sort of thing where everyone is a winner. And as the sky bruises and the grill warms, I smile, and promise myself that I'll get to Guns, Germs, and Steel some day soon.