The day I am no longer down to clown is the day I am dead
Tuesday journal, 9/16/25
Question: Would you prefer to know a lot about a little, or a little about a lot? The former is the sexier answer given the latter’s proximity to one “jack of all trades, master of none.” Bad rap, that Jack. Say that five times fast.
Me, personally? I want to know a little about a lot. I’m a Writer not an academic or a journalist so the kind of work I do is, I think, strengthened by having a wider range of multidisciplinary references. Cherry-picking is only frowned upon if you care who’s frowning, which I don’t.
I do, however, find myself obsessed with experts. What decisive power, to behold one thing and realize, “I’m gonna devote my entire life to this.” Much respect. My neighbor is a mechanic, and if I so much as whisper about a problem with my beat-up, 12-year-old Buick, he mysteriously emerges from his garage with a Miller Light and a wrench.
Andrew and I went to a wedding in Pittsburgh over the weekend. Ten hours of driving for five hours of festivities is crazy, but as John Mayer says in maybe his worst song ever, love is a verb. My friend Logan walked down the aisle to a string quartet version of “What’s My Age Again?” A white guy with dreads who NO ONE KNEW randomly brought our table a giant plate of bleu cheese crumbles. I don’t know. My favorite part of any event is making inside jokes in real time.
The first half of the five-hour drive home was quiet. No podcasts, no music. Just the pregnant whir of Pennsylvania coursing through the Appalachians.
“I hope we never get divorced,” I said, breaking the silence. “We won’t,” Andrew assured. End exchange. Something about the early foliage and the glint of my diamond made me believe him. Trust is basically the sum of all the times you have believed someone. I’m keeping a log.