So Rick and his wife picked up the pup. As a farewell gesture he destroyed one of my Apple remotes. Most people would’ve just said goodbye, so that was nice of him.

Having someone there to constantly pester me made me realize how much concentration writing requires. I get into a lucid state where I go into my own head. If I’m working out an outline, I’m problem-solving. If I’m actually writing, I’m nailing things down in rapid fire. And both of these things are tricky to do when someone keeps resting his head on your knee or when he grabs one of your running shoes and makes off with it.

“I’m trying to think here, pup!” I would say. The pup would look at me, his eyes sharp, his own mind turning around a few thoughts as well: How can I bite this guy?

Ghostboxes: When Circuit City or Linens N’ Things closes down, all you’re left with is an empty shell.

But this here is the American spirit in action: When life gives you ghostboxes, turn them into Spam Museums. The Spam Museum used to be a big-box Kmart, and now it is an emporium for the holiest of meats. I love this country!

Obligatory Michael Jackson Post: A couple of weeks ago I was walking around Manhattan and saw on my phone’s newsfeed that Michael Jackson had been taken to the hospital; a few hours later they were playing his songs on every block, and I knew then that he had passed away.

He was a sweet, strange guy — the words “tragic” and “weird” usually don’t go together, but he was definitely tragically weird. I watched this documentary/interview thing with MJ and Martin Bashir again the other day — Bashir systematically illustrates the origins of Michael Jackson’s weirdness. It’s all very simple, really: We did it to him. Ass beatings from Joe Jackson, then the sudden fame, adulation and stardom, and finally the love that you and me gave him — and then took away. We made him who he was in every sense of the phrase.

Shit just got real.