While reading a Haruki Murakami story in the Nov 17 issue of “The New Yorker” on the way home tonight, I discovered a typo on page 146.

“My sister’s huband owns stock in this hotel, so we can stay here for next to nothing.”

*polishing fingernails*

Standing on the train platform this evening I noticed a woman nearby wearing overbleached acid washed jeans with a tapered leg. Ah, memories. Of 1986.

My old health club is begging me to rejoin. Sigh. Here I go considering it, knowing that I am not exercising much at all and the gym is right across the street from my office. They want to give me nine months at $33/month, then $49/month after that. It’s a good gym.

But I should resist. I already spend almost that amount every month on martial arts. I just need to eat better and walk more. I could walk a longer distance to a different train stop every day, for instance. My neighborhood is full of hills.

Today I sent an angry letter to the Chronicle. I’ve never done anything like that before. But I wanted them to know I stopped reading their paper online. Their Newsom-bias is making me sick, and the blood-soaked sensational other “news” is nothing I was interested in anymore.

Our modern political system has made it very easy to win elections through lying and taking advantage of voter ignorance via confusion. I guess everyone is to blame for our shitty leaders. Just look at the White House. Of course in that case, that grave error has cost thousands of innocent lives all over the world, and many international partnerships are deeply soured.

At least we know that a Newsom administration will only lead to the deaths of a few hundred more homeless people. That won’t bother him a bit from the plush safety of his beautiful mansion.