This morning I entertained myself by copy-editing the resume and cover letter of someone Dr. Blahblah is interviewing this afternoon for an executive paralegal-type position working for the hospital�s main insurance-industry liaison. I counted over 40 errors, including such basics as no period after her middle initial and "ad" for "and." One of her key responsibilities at a previous job was "Special projects ,[sic] and Adhoc reporting as needed." Also: Handled many details with a grasp for the larger system and how patient care decisions need to be processed and communicated, ensuring that utilization management plan is in accordance with industry standards, and, my favorite, Supported faculty research by translating data needs into computer supported information. The insurance-industry liaison is thrilled that such a tremendous candidate has applied for the position, and I get the impression that Dr. Blahblah�s interview is rather a formality. I wish him well in his continued utilization management.

Still no call no e-mail. How long will this torture go on? (About 2o feet in the adult male.)

One of the Marcos is trying to get in touch with me. Last week he sent a card to the old Queen Anne address that got forwarded to Casa Rebecca, which actually makes me p.o.�ed at the USPS because they�re supposed to knock that off after six months and I�ve been on Beacon Hill for almost a year, and last night my sister called to inform me that he�d sent a letter to *her* address with a note on the back inviting her to open and read it and if she gave it her blessing to pass it along to me. What an ass. Ratio, by the way, of amount of time I dated this clown to time elapsed between breakup and today during which I have ignored his every e-mail overture and periodically thrown cards and letters into the garbage without even reading them, so unrancorously uninterested am I in whatever he thinks he has to say? Approximately 1:30. He was married for a while, but I�m guessing he must be divorced now. Maybe he�s reading my diary. Is he reading my diary? I doubt it but it wouldn�t put it past the motherfucker. The card I got last week was a series of copied-out quotations from all kinds of Big Thinkers, Garcia Marquez and Hawking among them, about love and self-knowledge and souls, etc. The only reason I opened that one is that I wanted to show it to Steve, I guess to do the same kind of thing that trust-funders do when they affect blue-collar sensibilities and a taste for Bukowski and PBR, I wanted to show him the trailer park my heart had once upon a time lived in and to hear him say, admiringly, "What a dump!" Not the most sterling of motives, I know, and some other time I will think about why it is I wanted that, why we all want that sometimes. But he just picked it up and read it and said, Who is this guy? According to the business card that was affixed to the back of the folded card, that guy is a Director at a biotech company on the East Coast, an entity which I believe to be specious based on the fact that the card lists no web site and the e-mail address is one at MSN and which Steve believes to be specious based on its claims to be leaders in genomics, proteomics, and something else I forget. "You don�t specialize in all those things at once � those fields are huge," he said in a half-amused and half-reprimanding tone of voice as if in response to a logical fallacy. People often ask me why I�m so adamant that my phone number be unlisted and my real name not appear on anything I put online, and dudes like the Director are your answer right there. If he is reading this, he�s probably got a boner by this time because I�ve written this much about him; he�s thinking that surely that must mean something, that deep down inside a part of me still cares or else that my seeming indifference and contempt is a mask for its opposite through which only he, who once knew me so well, can see. He�s wrong. Confidential to the Director: get a life.

I did go to trivia last night, blowing off something I�ll tell about at a later date in favor of spending a last evening with Jerry, and I must say that the Broadway Grill is a promising venue. The competition is excitingly low caliber � lots of Abercrombie and Fitch was in evidence, for example, and the men favored cologne � and Jerry and I as the only team of two found ourselves outclassed only by the heavy-hitting teams of four and five and six (no player limit either) whose easy acquaintance with the quizmaster suggested regular if not rabidly loyal attendance. We stayed for three rounds out of four and at the end were tied for first place in points among teams who had not yet won a round, we were in contention for the night's consolation prize. There were two questions Steve absolutely would have known, at least one Art would have got, and a few for which we would have relied on Terry, who also would have supplied a diplomatic second opinion on the two questions where Jerry and I each took a turn at being plain old stupid. Jerry�s off on Friday for a month back East, and when he returns he wants to return with our posse.

Still nothing.

In David Elliott�s review of "Legally Blonde 2," I liked "hyper-ginchy doll" and, in spite of myself, "the great meatloaf of slutty cuteness Jennifer Coolidge." In that PMS-or-heartbreak book I like almost nothing. Some of the pieces are fiction and some are non-fiction and it�s up to the reader to figure out which are which � though this reader, for one, is pretty much past the point of caring � and in some cases this would be a tough call to make unless you knew a thing or two about the writers. I think that this is disrespectful to the non-fiction, though maybe that just shows a certain bias on my part. Lillian Ross�s appreciation of Hepburn, a moist and glistening turd, is hilarious. If I were an English teacher there are six or seven places where I would write in the margin, What does this *mean*? It�s all a crock of, yes, smugly self-congratulatory utilization management, not that Lillian Ross was near the top of my intellectual credibility index to begin with. I enjoy the care she took with the adjectives in noting that Hepburn embodied "Puritan strength" and "Brahmin generosity," as though to bar the door against anyone of a lesser socioeconomic background or � mon Dieu! � non- (cough) European origins rushing in to one-up her own claims of having derived inspiration and moral instruction from Hepburn�s example of, of, of, oh, but we are discreet and we are not going to refer to that messiness, we will valorize the lady generally but knowingly while avoiding the only relevant specific angle we could contribute to discussion of her life; we are Brahmins, after all, myself and Miss Hepburn. And "formal marriage" � what, as opposed to an informal one, where the church or state attended in khakis and a button-down? Ha ha ha ha ha ha stop, you�re killing me. What an ass. Do you suppose the body was cold before that impotent little witch Ross started floating the proposal for the psychobiography which she alone � because of that inspiration and moral instruction, of course, because "she seemed to be speaking directly to me by her example" � will claim to be qualified to write? And the NYT should be ashamed not only for having allowed it to be used in the service of Ross�s delusions but also for publishing such namby-pamby prose. "Classy," "romantic," "appealing": ugh, stop! And as for this � "The way she responded, to give Mrs. Tracy what she asked for, left Miss Hepburn's mark on me forever" � this (thanks, Stuart): well, obviously; that�s what you get with people like Hepburn as role models of gender relations, and you must understand that I make that case completely outside my Ingrid Bergman partisanship. "Me," by the way, sucked. I read it but don�t make my mistake.

The Mariners have a pitcher named Gil Meche whom I have always liked to call Gilgamesh, which is one of those things where I can�t believe everyone doesn�t do this and where everyone else can�t believe I think it�s funny and if I ever wrote my autobiography there should probably be an entire chapter devoted to that categorization. I forgot to mention yesterday, I realized at the Buster Keaton flicks that Adam looks a bit like Keaton � picture a Jewish blondish Keaton, in fact, and that�s him. Illy, you will probably talk to him before I do, so you can tell him I said this.

Nope, nothing. Boom boom boom boom.