The best laid plans of mice, men, and bloggers

I should have posted something yesterday, really. Do you see that unlinked “16” on that calendar to the left? That should have linked to yet another one of my fabulous journeys into intellectual suicide. That was my plan. I decided early on what I was going to write about. Usually the subject of my post percolates throughout the day and erupts in an orgasmic release at night while I pound away mercilessly on this tired keyboard like a Bachian backdrop. Yesterday, this was my plan. However, yesterday turned into a chain event day. A chain event day meaning that my day unfolded like a pinball on a wave-ridden ship. And the pinball affected everything. It all began, you see, with a…woman.

The plan was such. Yesterday, we were to meet at my apartment. Have dinner, etc. The problems began Sunday night with an emotional spiel from her over the phone that put everything in danger and cast a shadow of doubt over my plans. OK, Monday was still on, however. Yesterday morning, I rushed to get ready, I caught the bus, realized I had a voice message. I checked it, it was her…she forgot certain items that disqualified the Monday plans from happening. Certain other sour emotions decorated the voice message. Ah, I heard this on the bus. Discouraged, I turned up my Ipod louder and considered the other public transportation riders with extra scorn. Which is amazing considering how much scorn I have even on a good day. OK, so I’m a “make lemonade” type of guy and this has turned into one bigass sour lemon.

My lemonade was that now I would have a chance to write a Monday night blog (which I had not counted on if plans had unfolded according to plan).

And the subject matter presented itself quite easily on the bus. I even emailed myself at work so I would not forget the intriguing train of thought that struck me. This is how I work. All my great idea generation occurs in the morning. The grueling and disheveling writing happens at night. So now the night was cancelled. I was left with no option but to resort to my own private hell of excessive thought. I would write a blog on a night I had written off! For people like me, conservation-of-energy-minded, this was great news.

My Monday was incredibly slow becuse my employer does not honor the King. Whatever.

I got home and my blog idea was still ruminating in the salivary gesticulations of my oral and mental cavities. I couldn’t wait!

I made a wonderful spiced up Cod fillet, powered up the modem, and my laptop (which is where I trust my great thoughts the most…my desktop is too massive and drowns out my wisdom) would not raise any sites. Ah, the little yellow exclamation point on my wireless tool bar icon. Damnit!

Time Warner Cable was shit for a long time. I complained about it 3 months ago (again) and for once they actually sent someone to look at the problem. I don’t know what the dude did, but my internet signal has been flawless (Turbo 20MB/sec baby!) since his little “visit.” Until last night. My signal was deader than Martin Luther. Both of them. I was beyond bitter. I called and got the worst runaraound from an Indian chick since never. I’ve never attempted to pick up an Indian chick, much to my discredit. The phone tech chick had an accent and I think someone was shadowing her. I tried everything. I rebooted my modem, my computer, my computer/modem…nothing. I was told I lived in an outage area. They were sending engineers in. OK.

I finally gave up about 10:30. Went to sleep. I was sporadically upset. Two foiled plans in one night. Furthermore, one foiled plan as a result of the other foiled plan. It doesn’t get any lower than that for a bachelor sloughing his miserable life away in a dusty old apartment.

Still, I survived. I fell asleep and didn’t bat an eye, ultimately.

You can never count on life.

She is the harshest mistress. She does what she wants. Naturalistic inclinations shape my existence. We are a helpless set of cerebral-driven nonsense. I was reminded of one of the greatest doomed laments ever.

Robert Burns was an ancient Limey after my own heart. I love this. The precision and impulsive nature of his observations. It’s the kind of shit I do (minus the genius).

To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough

Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murd’ring pattle!

I’m truly sorry man’s dominion,
Has broken nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
‘S a sma’ request;
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
An’ never miss’t!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,
Baith snell an’ keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell-
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro’ thy cell.

That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter’s sleety dribble,
An’ cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o’ mice an ‘men
Gang aft agley,
An’lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!

Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e’e.
On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!

The poem is an anthem to frigid fate.

The mosst celebrated and recognized verse is the seventh.

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o’ mice an ‘men
Gang aft agley,
An’lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!

This is a work of nihilistic genius.
Thank you Burns!

He even uses endearing terminology to describe fate. Fate with perfume. Fate is cute. Ooops, you turned over fate’s nest like you would an over-easy egg.


Our human plans are as valueless and trivial as the mouse’s instinctual castles.

We are human, we are intelligent. Hear us roar. Listen to our technological missives as they reign over the free world. We control nature. We dictate fate, or so they tell us until the day we die. We are human.

Our dreams are grand. We are mightier than the field mouse.

But the mouse’s dream is a dream still. And just as easily ridiculed.

My original post scheduled for last night? It was about embracing unhapppiness and renouncing happiness.

Perhaps another time. For I am nothing but a mouse, or maybe a man. Hardly a blogger.