Edvard Munch's invaluable masterpieces The Scream and Madonna have been recovered two years after their theft.

My new wife has been gone this week on business, and I don't like it. Apparently, she doesn't either. The first thing she said to me Monday night was, "When I left, the dancing girls didn't jump out of our closet and throw themselves at you, did they?" I hesitated.
        "No, but Scarlett just left."
        "Johansson? That's impossible, because I had dinner with her."
        "She was probably pretty hungry."
        "Asinine."
        "Think so?"
        "Yes. And by 'inine' I mean 'hole.'"

I've always been an adept bachelor, on every front. In the process of acclimating to married life, however, I seem to've lost my ability to clean and cook. Like a domesticated pig released into the wild, it didn't take long for me to harden to a life of survival. However, I make a very bad pig, or a good one depending on the metaphor.

So I've resorted to speaking aloud to my imaginary friend Scarlett, who silently coaxes me through the day. "That red underwear can't be washed with those white t-shirts. You washed your own clothes for years before this. Remember your training." Despite the pinkness, I've done fairly well. With this help I've remembered to take my vitamins, shave, and buy additional smoke alarms, too.

"Don't open four quarts of green beans. Despite your craving, you can't eat that much."

"America's Funniest Home Videos will come on again tomorrow. You need to go to bed."

"Here, watch me pout needlessly."

Still miss my wife, though.

I was doing all right. I haven't burned the house down and it's relatively clean. I've tried hard all week to not destroy something. I was sure to unplug the fan and lock the door when leaving, maintain the washer and dryer, and change the trash once the overflowing pile reached the table.

All this effort, and I still managed to ruin the living room rug with Cracker Jack. I wish I were joking; she's going to be perturbed. If I cover the spots with roses, she might not notice.

Some pieces of e-mail make you smile, such as this one I received just now:

I have had a request for assistance from Locust Elementary School for help with some Mandarin documents. If you speak/read Mandarin, please let me know. Thank you.

Some make you laugh:

We regret to inform you that Jesus was not Chewbacca's first mate. We apologize for any inconvenience. Good day to you, my fine pagan.

Others bring pains:

Discover back your memory! bring down my wrinkles and sags. Find open more your thoughts you in republican. Find more days of the old democracy thru innerself. Build librares of knowledge by book knowning. Go years into Eons. Tag you? For the spain Goce de la vida que usted a sonada alreded.. todo regularmento.

P.S. Today's Word of the Day: scientificky

For me it was a normal Tuesday morning. I showered, shaved, and drove to class with heavy eyelids. September 11, 2001 was five years ago. If it weren't for the efforts of a select group of Muslim extremists, I would have no idea now what I did on this day five years ago. But due to the terriffic events in New York and elsewhere, I remember. I was in Biology class, reading that day's procedure for lab. I wore a red shirt I had bought that summer in Pensacola, FL. There was an excited mumbling from two students near me that I couldn't avoid hearing. I remember the words "attacked," "bomb," "New York," and so on. The rumors elaborated to include the Pentagon and something about the White House and airplaines. As soon as I realized what was happening, I left class and went straight home. The rest of the day and night were spent watching the news. I remember thinking about how significant this is, how the only thing that I've seen come close to this is the Oklahoma bombing. The most recent was Columbine, and neither of those events came close to what was happening. On television, planes crashed into the World Trade Center over and over again. It was replayed ad nauseam, and since by my definition in this case that meant more than zero, it was a sickening thing. Debris pouring down like snow, bodies falling—some holding hands—and the relentless crying of the distress sirens from buried firefighters. It was surreal.

The only thing I remember more vividly than the tragic footage and heartbreaking stories from that particular day is the strange unity that was felt so briefly afterward. For a little while, a great number of people in America forgot about certain things like race, money, and politics to think more about humanity. For just a little while, the joke e-mails gave way to forwards about love and family. In the news, shark attacks and Britney Spears were replaced by stories that stressed the value of people. As Christmas came, candles were lit in honor of the dead and money collected for people deprived of loved ones. Ironically, it was a great time. People seemed to care a great deal more. Less were thinking about themselves. It was surreal.

That time quickly faded, however. It's a great shame that we can't all walk around with that same feeling of unity. Though we had just been attacked and thousands died, there came an odd feeling of safety among the new notions of domestic terror. It was because there was a very quick, fleeting feeling of connection, of the spirit of America. The kind of feeling you may get when reading about the Revolutionary War. Because of trouble, conflict, and disaster, there was a focus on the core values of life. We bonded in a time of need. I regret that it seems we can only do that during a disaster.

As I'm reminded again this year of September 11, 2001, I think of these things and again hope for a time when that feeling will be more common and lasting. Maybe we can live with greater emphasis on those important things. Until the end, there's hope.

Lindsey is spending the week in Atlanta for her job. Our conversations while she's away are always fun.

Brian (11:25:16 PM): So, what are you doing in that room all by yourself?
Lindsey (11:25:17 PM): looking at Emily's pictures and watching Friends
Brian (11:25:28 PM): how did you know I'd axe?
Lindsey (11:25:42 PM): because i know you better than you know yourself
Brian (11:26:17 PM): that's not true
Lindsey (11:26:34 PM): umyesitis
Brian (11:26:43 PM): OK
Brian (11:26:50 PM): what am I thinking?
Lindsey (11:26:55 PM): boobs
Brian (11:27:12 PM): whoa
Brian (11:27:18 PM): how about now?
Lindsey (11:27:27 PM): boobs
Brian (11:27:42 PM) GET OUT OF MY HEAD

I was watching the news two nights ago. It was the local news as evidenced by the call-in question: Are men really smarter than women? The answer was obvious after the first on air response made by a middle-aged male: "You know, half the things you see were made by men. So when it comes to—" The emdash represents the point at which my eyes turned red and I annihilated my television with my new rage-induced Cyclopsesque optic blasts. Half of things were made by men, huh? You just blew all other arguments out of the water, bud.

I visited my parents house yesterday afternoon. On the walk to the lake, I passed this small firewood pile. Apparently, my brother tossed this CD there. Very appropriate.

My wife is making me look through the Miss USA contestants. Isn't this backward? Anyway, my top five: Miss Texas, Maryland, Michigan, Utah, Florida. Not that I judge women by their appearance. No, of course not.

A guy nearly lost his manhood to a brick earlier tonight on America's Funniest Home Videos. I winced and let out a slow moan. I looked over at Lindsey on the couch, who simply said, "I'm glad I have everything on the inside!" and proceeded to pat herself to prove it.