My workday was like one of those carnival tilt-a-whirls... You expect nausea and sticky seats, but end up having a damn good time.

And as I left it behind, there was a single pink checkmark cloud in the sky...

Mmm. Good.

The idea that moveon.org's Bush-critical ad is too controversial to air during the SuperBowl (alongside commercials with women wrestling in fountains, etc.) is:

A) an outright lie
B) financially motivated excuse making
C) an affront to free speech
D) all of the above

Watch the ad, and then take your pick. Seems pretty cut and dry to me.

Cryptic Comment #96
The things you wish for can be nightmares. My word to the wise: stop wishing.

I'm afraid
of the things I could say
of what's just under my tongue

She was holding her cigarette with an heir apparent air, and I saw her for the first time calm outside herself. It was as though the cigarette was the gun she'd been slinking around without, and now, armed and yet not quite secure, she seemed not at ease... but easy.

"God, today was a fucking shitstorm," she huffed between the smoke signals.

The sun was setting behind the boats, the ducks gathering for the feast of unsold popcorn. I tossed a handful to one black duck hiding against the dock wall, alone.

We all have our dependencies.

"Yeah, but it's over now," I offered in an overtly subdued sigh.

"Damn right it is."

So many things to say, so little time... Roe v Wade, dem caucuses, the decay of human joy...

But I've run out of free time for this short morning. It's off to work with me.

(Anyone find a successful get rich scheme yet? Fill me in, damnit.)

Why are there ashtrays in restrooms stalls? Even in a casino, if you can't go without a cigarette for 20 seconds, maybe you need to reevaluate your brain.

Sudden Random Fact Of The Day:
Venus is one of only two planets in our solar system without a single satellite.

A beautiful, abnormally warm 68 degree January day.

I met the first sentence of my nonexistent novel on a dirt backroad of my brain. We said hello, and before I knew it, we were in a bar: the sentence growing quickly distorted by tequila and myself being hard-pressed to believe it was any good.

In any case, it looked like this:

At age nineteen, she was coming dangerously close to the chasm of mediocrity the young call death and the middleaged must be content to call home, and it only grew deeper the more she stared into the fraying edge of that pink motel bedskirt.

"So sentence," I pushed, leaning in and speaking nearly in a whisper, "you think you actually have potential?"

"Ohh, shurrrre." The slurring was annoying.

I walked it home, to a cozy place beside my frontal lobe, bade it a goodnight and a painless next morning and wandered back into the confines of reality.

January 10th case in point.



Good times... good times.

Trying my patience...

Sobriety is the enemy of the intelligent.

I know this. After 8 drinks, sliding back into sober thought was like attending a funeral after a day at Disneyland. All around me were suddenly people transforming, morphing from fun-loving, laughing friends into obnoxious mouth-breathers. My eyes began to clench into fist-like stares watching the people on the dance floor. And though I'd been among them not more than fifteen minutes earlier, I was suddenly convinced they were all brainless hormone slaves. "Are these people even hearing these lyrics?" I thought to myself as the nauseatingly overplayed "Hey Ya" came on. "I mean, the song is about the logical fallacies of love. Come on, people. This is not a happy song."

And from the outside, my Hyde to Jekyll transformation was also abundantly clear. I stood silent against the bar, nursing a water bottle and glaring. So much for a good time, I chuckled to myself with more than a twinge of irony.

Sometimes I hate my brain. I envy the ability of stupid people to have a good time.

I would give you this song, if it were free for the giving and heads wouldn't roll. Certain songs just need homes, and I think...

"it's your fate, but it's not your fault..."

[Current auditory influence: Barenaked Ladies - For You (3:27)]

Damien Rice tastes like naked regret.

The world needs an army of him.

The heading of the classified ad read "Cockapoos!" Struck by the opportunity for humor, I turned to Katie.

"So, they have a cockapoos - cocker spaniels and poodles - and my sister has a yorkiepoo, which is a yorkshire terrier and a poodle: so what would they call a shih tzu / poodle mix?"

Without missing a beat, Katie looked up and said, "Shittle!"

...

Just another day surrounded by brilliance.

[Current auditory influence: The Dandy Warhols - I Am Over It (3:50)]

This is the third, count 'em, third time I've listened to this song tonight.

I try to keep myself elated and in my right mind
But one wrong song telling me I've been here too long
Enough said
And I'm gone

Welcome To The Monkey House is on the fast track to becoming the album du mois 'round these parts.

(Jenny winks ironically and starts the album again.)