Extreme Midget Wrestling in Detroit tonight. I feel a little bit like I'm veering into St. Augustine' condemnation of blood sport . . . or maybe just veering into juvenile immaturity. But I'm going with my four sons and a Godson. First stop: Greektown for dinner and drinks.
Slow (or delayed) blogging tomorrow, obviously.
Seen on Twitter: "The man who invented autocorrect should burn in hello." Slayed me.
Random Blurb from the Notebooks: Man wants and the universe stands mute, like an abandoned baby crying to an oak tree for milk. It's absurd. “The absurd arises from this confrontation between man's appeal and the irrational silence of the world.” Camus. It's absurd to the point of suicide because the absurd, the pointlessness of it all, sits everywhere, like grinning gargoyles that appear every time we look over our shoulder who look keenly in front of us. Absurdity sits under society's crust, and we intuitively–existentially–do everything we can to ignore it. Our activity propels us across the landscape of existence, bumping over outcroppings of the absurd like a car hitting a squirrel.