Thurberite

I've decided I really suck at social commentary. I'm like Superman and kryptonite, only my deadly element is Thurberite; when exposed, I just can't come up with any profound insights into anything at all. I'm much better at just spewing out what happened this week in as engaging a way as possible. And throw in a couple of pictures while I'm at it.
I didn't take any pictures this week with the old iPhone, so I'm including one that Deeann (art director here at The Reporter) took of me by the Bethesda fountain in Central Park. We both happened to be in New York simultaneously (I was on vacation and she was there on business), so we met at the Met (how endearing) and walked through the park; stopped for a drink at the Boathouse, then walked south to Columbus Square and down Broadway to Times Square, then took a subway to her hotel in the Soho and had a marvelous dinner on the company credit card. And, yes, we did talk shop.

Recent tragedy: I dropped my iPhone and got a stress fracture in the corner of its high-tech faceplate. Luckily, it still worked, but I knew if I didn't do something, those little shards of glass would fall out in my pocket and slice up my fingers or something worse. So I gently applied a few drops of superglue and sealed the crazed corner perfectly. I cannot, however, take a picture of the iPhone damage with the iPhone, which seems somehow profound to me. (It's that Thurberite again). So I have no shots of the damage. It does, however, set me up with a perfect rationalization for why I will need to purchase the new model when Apple comes out with it (and you know they will).

This last week was one for cars. Steve got his 30,000-mile servicing on Wednesday and I got my 60,000-mile servicing on Friday. We coughed up over a grand for the car dealership, but it's worth it knowing I'm less likely to break down on the freeway. I've had my car for almost nine years now, and I've put 40,000 miles on it. That works out to a little less than 4,500 miles a year. Hopefully, I can keep it for another five years or so, and the next car I buy will run on hydrogen.

Things are going well at The Reporter. The redesign (I'm sure you've all rushed out by now and picked up a copy at your local newsstand) is getting more familiar, and what was daily invention last week is now becoming a bit more routine. There were a couple of times this week, though, that I had to get adamant and put my foot down about some really egregious design choices made by a few of the editors and paginators. There were a few heated moments and some slapdash last-minute redesigns on my part, but the overall look is remaining consistent while slowly expanding to fill day-to-day needs. Really; pick up a copy. Weekdays it's only $3.

My cousin Robin Riker finally returned from her adventures in New York. She's got a new and exciting gig you can read all about in next week's TV Guide. Total excitement. Also, my brother David and his wife Alain had a baby just recently. I didn't even know they were pregnant. It's there sixth child, so they're probably used to it by now. I understand there were some tense moments with a late and induced delivery, and some postnatal concerns with the baby (whose name escapes me at the moment it starts with "Jay" and I want to say Jayred). Anyway, another McDougal is on the planet. I figure David and Alain have more than made up for my blissfully nonreproductive lifestyle.