Having stared briefly into the mis en abyme (sp?) of the blog world, I now have a refreshed awareness of my own pointlessness.

Last night was the final evening of my workplace's somewhat desultory attempt at company-sponsored bowling. We bowled at Port Authority Bus Terminal, which is someplace I never, ever imagined bowling. Travelers who pass through Port Authority will find that it's generally pretty unremarkable and mall-like, but the bowling alley is notable for two things -- an entirely swinging jukebox (more Stevie Wonder than you can work your way through in an evening, though you'll have to fight with the folks who play Destiny's Child nonstop); and its not-unpleasant bar, which has a tankful of gigantic, mournful fish the color of the Marlboro Man's lungs. They float serenely in what for all I know might be a vat of Gordon's vodka, giving passers-by the chance to observe life at its most primitive, unadorned and unapologetic. Go see the grey fish. God knows how much longer they'll be in residence.