At the Bottom of the Wombat Barrel

Just for the record: it's a Sunday night in April, it was 85 degrees today, I'm at the office, and across from the building, in front of the public library, they are shooting -- or preparing to shoot -- a scene from what I am told is the Spiderman movie. There's nothing significant in all of this, nothing I'm able to opine about, nothing aesthetically remarkeable. But why not record this not-exactly memorable moment? Why should I only care about the times when I am able to pinpoint some idea verbally, or hark on some surreal triviality of the web? No, I will care about this uninspiring 8:27 PM; I will send my description of it out through the fiber-optical threads of our e-democracy, I will throw this featureless stone into the pond of your brain, knowing that its ripples will disappear the second your reading of this paragraph is over; pleased nonetheless for having done with this 8:27 (now 8:30 -- I have worked slowly on this ephemera, to boot) something, anything at all.