Ideally, this narrative should be a warts-and-all recounting of my state of mind, my interactions with the world, my ethics, my failings, my phobias. It should reflect the extent of my own insight into my thoughts and actions, and it should be a look into the past that will allow Boobee to understand what his father was made of. Assuming that such a thought would even matter to him. What would today's most significant entry be? There are at least two things that I'd record: the humor piece I read in the New Yorker - My Dog Is Tom Cruise (sidesplittingly funny, if an anal-retentive person can experience such a thing), and the scene in which our puppies got fly larvae squeezed out of them. Harrowing to hear them squeal in pain. Most be a dog day!
But, I also thought that I should manage the image of my relative who has a good shot at becoming the next president of the country. I'm not going to mention who he is (there are at least three people about whom I can make this assertion) for fear of damaging his prospects. These things are best kept quiet.
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