Unfortunately, in this case, mistakes can lead to compromising the entire planet

Hey, there are five things in this post.

1. Latest poem to make me want to share it with people: Robert Minhinnick's "The Rhinoceros."

2. I fell in love with this painting in the spring of my senior year of college: John Roddam Spencer Stanhope's Thoughts of the Past (1859). I tried to write it into a story once, but it never went anywhere.

3. All of these answers are brilliant: The Stranger, "Men Who Rock II."

4. So after six different people recommended it to me last night, I decided to give Stargate: SG-1 (1997–2006) a try. Due to Netflix not streaming the series, Hulu requiring an account, and most of the complete episodes available on YouTube looking messed around with in some way, I fished around in the remoter regions of the internet and ended up starting my exploration of the SG-1 universe with "Inauguration" (7.20), which turned out to be a clip show and therefore not actually a bad introduction to the series. I am relatively spoiler-indifferent for media that's been around for nearly twenty years, so mostly it made me curious about the excerpted incidents, especially the ones with the downloadable alien database and the interdimensional creepy-crawlies. It also seems to have imprinted me on Robert Picardo's Richard Woolsey, whose dry bureaucratic diligence turns out not to be incompatible with a conscience or the ability to think for himself. I was reminded of the investigating magistrate from Costa-Gavras' Z (1969), albeit with a slightly shadier start point. Apparently I have to watch Stargate Atlantis (2004–2009) if I want a lot more of him. Okay, then.

5. Tomorrow I plan to buy bagels.

ליגן אין דר'ערד און באקן בייגל

So I did buy bagels. From Kupel's Bakery, because day-tripping to New York is improbable. I came back from my voice lesson in Belmont, changed for the 66 at Harvard Square, and had a baker's dozen of bagels, a braided challah, and two parve knishes (one for derspatchel, one for me) within half an hour.

And then, because the MBTA fell over and died, it took me two and a half hours to get home.

Strictly speaking, I was only waiting for a return bus for an hour and fifteen minutes of that time. The ever-popular "Not in Service" bus went by once, and so did a 66 which was so crowded, it didn't even stop. The bus which finally came was equally crowded, but at least the driver believed she should let people on. The charming passenger in the Superman T-shirt waiting just beyond the fare machine didn't. As in, he let the college-age dude with the backpack and the earbuds past, but tried to tell me the bus was too full. "I've been waiting for more than an hour," I said. He took that as his cue to yell at the bus driver instead of me, informing all within earshot that he'd waited nearly as long and he didn't pay good tax money to be treated like shit. I paid my fare and thanked the driver for stopping. She said the schedule disruption had to do with Harvard graduation. I'd completely missed it was today.

I got home and I put cream cheese on a bagel and lox on the cream cheese and sour cream on the lox and I ate it. It was primally satisfying. Several glasses of water also disappeared around this time, because I hadn't had anything to drink for three hours at that point.

And then schreibergasse came over and we went for a walk that took up the rest of the evening, ranging as far as Arlington Center, spiking back to Pemberton's, and finishing at the Somerville, where we picked up Rob at the end of his shift and I gave my word to David the projectionist to attend the Sam Peckinpah series starting in July. Now I'm sitting in front of my computer. I just took a sort of plum-and-nectarine crumble out of the oven.

I'm pretty tired.