I feel a little self-conscious about the unemployment-related solipsism to which I�ve lately been falling victim here in the di. I�ve also been considering going over to the blog side and although in that capacity I know that if I ever start making reference to "my readers" you should stop reading anything I write, I accept that there�s an element here of, well, audience awareness. And so I have been wanting to get back, here, to something shallow and not as intensely me me me-ish, like what I�m reading and who�s being a big hypocrite, etc. But this also presents a problem because, I was realizing a few days ago, I�m still in that bacon-shack-settling-into mode where being in the apartment is a thing to do unto itelf; I haven�t quite acclimated myself to it as a place in which to do a, b, and c � the being is the doing, sometimes it is as much as I can take and hold this excuse for an act together. I feel like my brain is in second gear.

But here is something, maybe: last night I was walking downtown on my way to meet Steve and I brought along my MP3 player, the one I sometimes take along running. The playlist on it was one I assembled over a year ago, and maybe because I was walking instead of running I was paying closer attention to them than I usually do; the cringe factor was in effect. There were some things I didn�t want attention-payingly to listen to (e.g., Sammi Smith�s "What a Lie") and so to have to recall the state of mind that had led me to select them, and there were others that I was gratified to hear and that in fact evoked real nostalgia for that poor sad sucker I was and her sad sucky state of mind � like, oh man did the cheerful masochism and denial in "Don�t Marry Her" take me back to a weird kind of happy place. And then I heard my segue from "Lake Titicaca" to "Paint It Black," which, I am bragging but I am sorry truly *is* one of the coolest and most inspired things I think I�ve ever done, and I congratulated myself for having been such a genius and then I started thinking about the Stranger Genius Awards, which will be announced in next week�s issue if they haven�t been already. For those reading from far-flung locales, this is Seattle�s local "alternative" newspaper, and they�re giving grants to five local arts practitioners who have been measured against the editorial board�s rigorous standards and so been found worthy. And, OK, yes, that�s sarcasm, my gripes with the Stranger and the way it makes me weary are hardly classified information. But last night it hit me that these awards have put the nail in the coffin of my biggest Seattle daydream � biggest daydream for Seattle � which was that one of these days someone would start a ballsy local magazine or newspaper with really solid arts coverage and writing and criticism, since what the Stranger has done by making itself the arbiter of "genius" in arts is to have bankrolled its own presumed critical preeminence: if the Stranger says so-and-so is a genius and was willing to make it official with a thousand bucks, well then so-and-so got paid for being a genius and therefore must be a genius, which is what the Stranger said. Buy somebody a drink to look over your resume, and technically that person can call himself a freelance editor. It�s kind of the same thing. I don�t know why there isn�t any such thing as this hypothetical publication in Seattle, since lots of smaller towns have them, and I also don�t know why there�s such deep cultural hostility here to the idea of criticism that is rooted in neither politics nor scenelitism (do you like my new word?), but I was hopeful that one could one day come into being, and survive. I even guessed that a certain sector of Seven Year Wendy�s old pals, who live in the intersection of biotech and deep artsy roots and having bought houses in well advance of the housing boom so in addition to biotech money their mortgage payments are low hence mucho disposable income, would be the ones to make it happen. And please understand that I wasn�t rooting for this outcome solely because I wanted to write for the thing � I figured it would be nice but not necessary; if my dream magazine would not have let me onto the masthead then it would be the kind of place that might have let me, and that would be fine. Hell, I only wanted to read it, and I wanted to know that I lived in a place that supported it. That supported me, I also mean � my biggest letdown about life in Seattle is still the continually accumulating evidence that it doesn�t want someone like me living in it, like what is so wrong with me and the things I�m interested in? Why is it a black hole I�m spewing into?

Anyway. Now I don�t know if my magazine will ever happen, since the people I might have thought would be (would have to be?) instrumental in founding it, defining its terms of engagement and constructing its ethos, will now instead want to be earning the institutionalized honor of what-the-Stranger-says-is-good. You can even interpret it in an Orwellian manner, how the Stranger can be seen to have sponsored the concept of genius-in-Seattle. If there are two grants and the money�s the same, wouldn�t you, as a local artist, prefer to be able to identify yourself as the recipient of the "genius" one? Of course you would. So you want to stay on the good side of the people who get to confer the adjective, you want to make sure their refs notice you and to do that you need to play their game. I mean, I am making it all sound more insidious than it needs to be � it�s just business, especially for the Stranger. I�m sure they�ve semantically unpacked their new awards program, they know what they�re doing, and the marketplace is a free one so they are totally entitled. And artists get money, and I�d have to be wishful criticism�s designated puppy-kicker to have a beef with that. Let the record show that I am fully in favor of artists getting money.

But I am also entitled to a short internal bout of melancholy over the situation, my own personal day the music died � or, oh all right I�ll cut the drama, the day someone switched off the radio. Blah. Seattle, you have so much potential! Why won�t you use it?

Random news: an old work pal of mine is now a Mary Kay lady. I saw a Smith Barney commercial in which I learned that "only 1 in 7" applicants to the company for a Financial Advisor position is accepted. Only?! Sign me up, those are the best odds I�ve seen in years. I got mail from Alan. The rebirth of Poker Night starts next Thursday. Haircut tomorrow. And, Catharine, synchronicity watch: Tuesday night coming home from a movie I was trying to remember one my favorite passages from "Lucky Jim," wanting to recite it to Steve. Then the next day this article with the passage in question quoted in full, and can you guess what book I am reading right now? It is the Jarrell.

Saw "Lost In Translation" last night. If Bill Murray does not get at least a Golden Globe nomination, I am buying a gun.