I remember (ha! irony!) a tatty little shop a few blocks from my house in Rosemead, stuffed from front to back with the most astonishing assortment of industrial detritus imaginable. It even spilled out the back into a fenced area visible from the side street. It was probably home to a considerable population of vermin, and it was called The Store of a 1001 Articles. (We used to joke that it was actually 1002 articles, if you counted the redundant one in front of 1001.) In truth, I'd not have been surprised to find that there were upward of 10,000 articles in that small building, and most of them utterly useless. The place was eventually demolished and replaced with a parking lot, I believe. I had never mustered up the courage to venture inside, which I no more than half regret. It's likely that, had I done so, I'd still be suffering nightmares from the experience.
But it occurs to me that, should my brain manifest itself as a retail establishment (don't ask me how such a thing would happen- I'm no Douglas Adams, alas), it would probably closely resemble The Store of a 1001 Articles. That I am sorely in need of professional help is undeniable. That I will ever receive it is even less likely than that the workings of this computer will one day be comprehensible to me. Don't bet a dime on either eventuality.
Speaking of incomprehensibility, I've found that it is Opera which is giving incorrect file extensions to some image files, including those stored on LJ Scrapbook. One failing of the otherwise excellent browser is that many web sites don't play well with it. Some web sites it fails to see altogether. Ah, well. I've always got Firefox handy.
All night tonight, I've been hearing the high-pitched cry of some night bird. It has been among the trees, rather than overhead, or I'd have taken it for a hawk. I don't know if hawks like to hang out in trees. Given the time of year, I suspect that, whatever fowl it is, it is seeking a mate. Its persistent failure to succeed in doing so, hour after hour, has lent the otherwise serene and pleasant night an air of melancholy. I hope the bird gets lucky soon, if only so that I need no longer listen to its plaintive screech.
Saturday. I doubt that anything interesting will happen.
