Wow. So I have about three or four half-written posts but nothing to show for it. To paraphrase my boss at Scripps, can it really wait until tomorrow?

It couldn't, that time. Ah, memories of failure.

First: Got my Georgia pictures back from Evil Jubb, my roommate's alternate universe counterpart. It took me a week of unanswered calls before I got the notion that he mightn't have a phone. I talked to him in person yesterday, because he really doesn't have a phone in his room. He was happy to help, but mistakenly gave me a shiny coaster that didn't actually have any photos burned on it.

I surmised, rightfully as it turns out, that he'd deleted the pictures after I left. Sorrow. Anguish.

Thankfully, inability to burn a CD correlates nicely with inability to empty the trash. This afternoon I went to Evil Jubb's room, whipped out my iPod — not just for transporting downloaded anime to B-town anymore — grabbed the pictures, and like ze smoke I was gone.

Ironically, I'm not too fond of any of these pictures. Maybe if I'd gotten them last week, when I was still muttering "Soft soft in the middle, soft soft in the middle middle middle" whenever I was in a hurry. Yeah, then I would have cared more.

I went home this weekend for my littlest brother's confirmation. As most of you know, I'm no longer Catholic (to the extent that anyone can cease to be Catholic) so this was the first time in a while I'd been to church. I think it's been at least a year.

I'm a big fan of solemnity, of course, but there wasn't much in this ceremony. I'd always casually assumed that rank and eloquence went hand in hand in the Catholic church, but of course that's wrong. Bishop Schnurr, though I'm sure he's a man of strong faith, is a surprisingly poor speaker compared to any of the various priests who've been stationed at St. Christopher's at one point or another: Fathers Charlie, Shamus — even George, the new non-Irish priest, can give a better sermon. We're a cash cow for the Duluth diocese so I guess we get the better priests.

Anyways, he gave a stilted pre-obituary for the pope, who was not yet dead on Saturday morning, and we were told to pray for him. It bothered me, and bothers me still, because it seemed like we were praying for him not to die. If a guy's in pain and has a golden ticket to Heaven, I say pray for his swift and painless death if you truly believe in such a glorius afterlife. But that's just me.

Speaking of the pope, my weekend in B-town, boring as it was, culminated in this exchange, set in kitchen full of relatives:

[Ring-a-ling]
Our Bold Hero: Hello?
Woman: Hello, could I speak to your mom?
Our Bold Hero: Sure. Mom?
My mom: Hello. Ok. Oh. I see. [Hangs up.]
Chorus: Well?
My mom: The pope just died.
Our Bold Hero: Mom, did you organize some sort of pope's death calling tree?
[Scattered laughter from college-age relatives]
Our Bold Hero: What, too soon?

Matt liked that one. We have an understanding. Also, he cleared up some preconceptions I'd had about one of his college friends who's living in Appleton right now.

I left on Sunday. There was some discussion of my future in general and grad school options in particular while I was home, and I'm still on the fence about the U of Chicago masters program. That's an expensive year.

But enough of that. It's enough to make me want to drop off the grid entirely. I'll live out of the Deathtrap in the American Southwest. Eat cacti and lizards.

Back to the Lawrence bubble. I have an office in the library now, which is very exciting, and I'm looking forward to getting a lot of work done there. I'm even hauling in Jubb's computer so I can do some writing.

Ah, speaking of the library…