What a difference a day makes.

Yesterday, I felt distantly sorry for Stephen King, who had been given that National Book Foundation award, much to the dismay of the self-appointed literati, most notably Harold Bloom, who seemed to take it all very personally. I felt sorry for Stephen King, thinking how it must suck to be that guy -- the one who "made it" but whose work is thought to hold so little artistic merit that, to be recognized in the same halls as Phillip Roth and Arthur Miller is considered a sign of the hopeless dumbing down of our culture. Is considered akin to flinging poop on the walls of those hallowed halls and using said poop to spell out a drippy title. Perhaps Misery. Or Pet Sematary. It's silly. I don't think Stephen King is Shakespeare, but Oprah Winfrey won this same award, too, and Phillip Roth has a reputation of being somewhat of a bastard. My scorecard calls it a wash.

So, yesterday, I was feeling sorry for Stephen King. Today, I have forgotten about him entirely. I have enough to worry over without adding Stephen King to the mix.

And my mom just arrived with the announcement, "I have a bag of soup!" And she gave me a bottle of root beer barbecue sauce in search of my opinion on it. Stephen who?