I'm listening to This American Life on NPR and they've just finished the chicken opera segment. "Oh! Oh!" A woman who's put together the hand puppet opera Chicken Little, scored with lyrics in Italian. It puts this urge to write a journal in perspective when I contemplate a world that nurtures pullet sopranos. An entire program on fowl for Thanksgiving, a tradition of some kind for the program. OK. I can certainly relate to a heroine named Pulcina. On a Saturday. Then again, in accordance with their fowlish theme, there is Chickenman, a superhero born in the 70's, corny, but most excellent. A fowl Saturday. Cluck! How to get this brain of mine in gear, sitting here, idling, listening to this most excellent program? Do I detect a light? An idea? Apparently not.

Yesterday an excellent lunch with MSM in Jack London Square, a walk down the dock browsing along a line of artisan tables. A puzzle shop was running a going out of business sale. Not a good sign. An end of trouble or a sign of trouble unabated? After lunch and two glasses of the house red it didn't seem to matter. MSM's company went out of business recently - adios, have a nice Thanksgiving! - and she's been interviewing with success, although it's never a calming experience. She goes by the rule if a situation doesn't strike her right, if she doesn't get a good hit from the people she's interviewing with, she'll turn them down no matter, turning down an offer for that reason last week. A sensible attitude. "How much time do we have left in this life to be spending it with idiots?" A question I ask myself.