As if I do not have enough responsibilities, I am now being held accountable for the things I do not do. Today, my brother Mike emailed to ask why I did not write in this blog how I saw him and his lovely girlfriend, Cate, last weekend. They came to Manhattan for a show, dropped by my apartment, and we went out for a drink. The answer is, I have no idea why I did not mention it sooner, except that I was in more of a mood to complain about my haircut on that day, and there was not a graceful segue. (Also today, my mother wrote to tell me that she does not know what sadomasochism is. I actually find this a great comfort.)

In other news (speaking of graceful segues), Rob and I were at Barnes & Noble yesterday and overheard a bizarre conversation. Two Upper East Siders (one can just tell) explained to a man at the Information desk that they were looking for "inspirational fiction." "Our son is suffering from severe depression," they said, "and he hasn't left the house for twelve years. Can you think of a book that will get him motivated? It doesn't have to be fiction."

I am pretty sure that I have captured the essence of their request, although Rob is convinced they said two years instead of twelve. Even so, it is still a lot of pressure on that unfortunate salesperson. If those parents were going to spur themselves into action after two or twelve years, would you not think a qualified psychiatrist would be a better authority than some poor schmuck working in the Fiction and Literature section?

No wonder their son is depressed.