Saturday morning, ten balmy degrees above zero, with a nearly invisible snow shower speckling the air. A chickadee is rooting fruitlessly in the window feeder. I am sitting at the kitchen table, drinking mediocre coffee and eyeing the ugly cover of a Fitzgerald novel: a line-drawing pastiche of badly rendered liquor bottles and society magazines, on a puce background. The Penguin colophon is the only good thing about this cover. I've always liked that Penguin.

I see my prose is grinding to a halt here. Really, I feel so dull . . . not, at the moment, to myself (I'm perfectly content to be watching that chickadee optimist, though I wish the coffee and the book cover were of higher quality) but as the Voice of This Letter. Therefore, I'll offer you a peek at the lives of two people who have had more thrilling experiences lately. Say thank you to Facebook for creating the capsule-summary style known as the status line.

Friend 1: "Awesome fan mail from a cranky old man. He forwarded my essay to his two nieces, 'who are heavily tattooed and go through boys like toilet paper.' I anticipate a lovely correspondence with him."

Friend 2: "Yesterday, a frail older woman, with very thick glasses and hearing aids, moved her walker toward me and asked for my assistance. We were near the register at a local book store. Her weak voice trembled as she said 'Excuse me, young man, would you please look at these buttons and tell me if there is one that says "Ask me if I give a shit" ?'"