Last week I posted a photo of that beautiful bruised leg of Flying Wallenda Woman. I don’t think she was exactly thrilled, but man, it’s a bruise to be proud of. While trying to find a video to explain what a “pitchpole” was, I lost about three hours of productive work, chasing every movie link that popped up when I searched “boat crash.” It’s like looking in a Kleenex: you know it’s not going to be pretty, but you can’t help yourself.

I tell myself it’s part of my job. I am indeed advertising shows at Mick’s, right? And I need content. Right?

My computer is no longer a Time-Saving Device. Today’s newspaper reported that every time you take a break to check for email, which I do every five minutes, it takes sixteen minutes to get back to work. And me, being a word nerd, I can spend ten minutes writing, “Hi—how are you?”, worrying whether to use an em-dash or comma. But em-dashes don’t travel well between Macs and PCs, unless you hard-code them, which I do by typing the burdensome code — because that’s how much I hate using a double-dash. (Actually, I could just use two independent clauses, no? Hmmm…wait, where was I? Oh yes) this here e-mail (wait—did I spell that as email elsewhere? Must be consistent!) this here email could have been done at noon, but now it’s a quarter to three, and I won’t send it until after I’ve set it down and re-read it later with fresh eyes. It would be faster if I would just phone you, each of you. We could chat a bit before I bombard you with all the shows at Mick’s I want you to see. “Great weather, huh? Did you watch Nastia get robbed of her gold medal on the unevens last night? By the way, Joe Purdy is performing Wednesday with Meiko…”

You see my problem.

Then there are my favorite websites, which I go to when I need a diversion, which is never. Add all the accidental web content that discovers me, from dying rich Nigerians wanting to give me their money to unconventional uses for common barnyard animals, and the day is shot.

Last night my daughter called me over to her computer. “Dad, I found the perfect font for my website,” she said. “It’s airy and stylish and classy, without being too foofy. I spent an hour converting every page. But some viewers are seeing Helvetica, and I can’t stop it.”

“Helvetica is close,” I shrugged. “It’s a time-tested classic. Not bad.”

“It’s unacceptable,” she said as if referring to the Russian invasion of Georgia. “I want my font.”

I was so proud I could have popped. So—two hours later…