This whole Internet thing all you people do: it's exhausting. Wonkette posts, it seems, on a quarter-minute basis, and while I am a serious, serious admirer (I once asked the editor/writer's not-undistinguished partner if he was, indeed, Mr. Anna Marie Cox, this in midst of correspondence about actual work I was going to do for the guy), there's something dizzying about getting wickedly pointed barbs about the news before you've even gotten the damn news in question.

Granted, she's presumably getting paid for her labor; yet there are many within even my timid circle of clickitude whose proficiency leaves me gasping in the dust of their intake and output: Dr. Green reads more papers than that dude at Slate, drops the political and foreign-policy science, and then goes on to do a whole nother job involving teaching and whatnot. Ditto Prof. Kathleen, except that she proceeds to go on and have big long, meaningful written conversations in the comments. If I skip Bookslut for a day the amount of sheer link-homework I have to do is daunting. The political musings over at Torrid's World are not, perhaps, Kaus-ian in bulk, but they're in that ballpark.

This all to say nothing of MeFi and the infinitely beguiling if not all-consuming info-clearinghouse it hath spawned. I should be grateful that Rory is, at least, lying low for a while.

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Bizarrely complaining about having too much diverting stuff to read endlessly fed into my computer, for free, aside (subject of next rant: availability of inexpensive, diverse fruit in local markets creates a constant, unpleasant reminder that I should start eating better -- the pain of it all!), I wish to make a few notes about a recent experience (last night's, to be precise), with the hope in mind that some of you may find something instructive in it.

1. When, as you are considering whether or not the baby would like to play more with the yellow birdie or move on to a pre-bedtime visit from Mrs. Ladybug, your wife calls to you from the dining room, "There's a fire, we have to get out right now," you should probably realize that there is absolutely no reason in the world why anyone would just make up about something like that, particularly as they ran around grabbing things. There's just no comedy value in it at all. Hence, you don't need to waste an additional second asserting something that should be obvious is a falsehood, viz, that she "must be kidding."

2. You also don't need to spend a minute and a half putting the baby in the baby carrier. You could just continue to carry her in your arms, straight out the front door, past the guys in helmets dragging the hose into the apartment across the hall. Would work, I think, just fine.

3. Your neighbors across the street will probably offer to take you and your coat-wrapped baby into their living room or something like that. And they'll hang out with you for a long time, and basically give over their evening to you, as you all stare through their picture window at the front of your building and the firefighters helping people down the fire escapes. You will discover that you wish you had the means to buy these neighbors a very large and expensive piece of consumer electronics by way of thanks. Although cookies will probably do.

4. The lobby can hold a surprisingly large amount of water.

5. The absence of people being taken away in ambulances can be the very nicest thing one doesn't see in an evening.

6. It is perfectly OK to thank the firefighters, even if you're voice is shaking and you feel a bit foolish.

7. If you are extremely lucky, even though the fire was right across the hall, you might be left with just tiniest lingering smell of smoke in your place, along with a less tiny, also lingering set of horrible thoughts about what might have been. You'll want to sleep over at friends', just because.

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Finally, apropos of none of the above, don't you love it when Google ads unironically reflect the content of the satirical piece to which they're attached? (You don't? Well, who asked you anyway?)