I hate browsers

Note: I wrote this last night, but blogger's site was down so all instances of "today" really mean yesterday.

I just wrote a long and inspired blog. Then my browser crashed. Damn. I will attempt to reconstruct it as well as I can, but I fear that my muse has fled. Scared off, no doubt, by my fit of rage after seeing my work vanish. So, as you read please pretend that each sentence is either hilarious or insightful, and that each word is masterfully chosen and impeccably placed.

The poison ivy is still tormenting my arm and various other body parts. I feel like a leper. My skin is discolored and sickly looking. Unclean. Applying anti-itch cream merely makes it sticky as well as bumpy. What a stupid plant. What does poison ivy have to gain by my suffering? Since the painful effects don't take hold immediately dumb animals would have no way of knowing which leaves to avoid. And intelligent ones like myself are merely infused with desire to destroy the vile plant. It's as if the plant were only meant to harm out of spite.

I went running today. I hope to make a regular habbit of this. I've been growing increasingly annoyed at being out of shape. Perhaps I should have ended the previous sentence after the first four words. Anyway, it's time to trim up a bit. About two thirds of the way through today's run I passed a young boy, maybe 11 or 12 years of age. He was wearing running pants and an fatigued expression. As I passed the boy he glanced up at me and sprinted forward. This only took him a short distance ahead of me before he slowed again to a walk. As my pace brought me near the boy he struggled forward in short bursts of sprinting, looking back in between. When I eventually reached him seemed to give up and slowed down. He fell well behind me as I jogged onward. I was surprised to hear his rapid footsteps behind me a couple minutes later. What a determined young man, I thought. The sound of sprinting was a fair distance behind me but growing closer. As he drew near I could hear his steps growing uneven and labored. He was struggling to keep up the pace, very slowly closing the gap. Arriving beside me out of breath he spoke up saying, "excuse me, is this your key?" Since my running shorts don't have pockets I take my spare key with me, hanging around my neck on a string. Without my key I would have been locked out of my car, carrying nothing but a piece broken string. I was amazed the kid had chased me down to return the key. I found myself wishing I had a few bucks on me to show how much I appreciated his effort. Would I help someone if it required as much energy? I hope so, and I'll try to remember the example set by this kid.

Jonathan Gold is a restaurant reviewer for the LA Weekly. Today, he disturbed me, greatly. His review for Pie 'N Burder (which is a fine place) explaining why the burgers are good contained the the following:

the slice of American cheese, if you have ordered a cheeseburger, does not melt into the patty, but stands glossily aloof.

Why is this man trying to sound poetic while describing American cheese? And why does he seem to appreciate cheese's failure to melt as any real cheese would? I suggest that the line be changed to read,

the slice of American cheese, being a petroleum byproduct, has a high enough melting point that it merely becomes slick with the greese instead of softening up.

Aloof, my ass.