suavely deranged

After damn near 6 months, the happy sounds of TV are again ringing throughout the halls of Stately Deranged Manor. Sadly, there's Nothing on worth watching. And, of course, because it is me, the TV guys showed up an hour and a half early, but I left the ringer on, so their phone call woke me up. Fine, so far. Then, they finally muscled my new baby into the crib, but because it has wheels, they couldn't put it on top of the coffee table wherefore my previous TV resided. I could only find 3 little coaster-type dealios of the 4 upon which my old baby resided, to keep from scarring the table. Naturellement, after the boys had finished hooking up everything (I tipped them $20 each, because I'm good people, and suitably grateful), and I was rearranging furniture, attempting to make more room and such; lo and behold, the 4th coaster appeared, as if from heaven or wherever such things hide.

So now I'll have to invite some of my big strong friends over to the Manor to help me hoist my baby up onto said table, so I can then proceed to move all my furniture back where it belongs. But I'll deal, I'm just so abso-fucking-lutely THRILLED that they still make crappy TV shows for me to watch. After All This Time, I'll watch damn near anything. Except reality shows, of course. And Dr. Phil. Some lines just weren't meant to be crossed, after all.

Sadly, posts may be few and far between for the next couple of days, whilst I get reacquainted with the joys of television. I'ma be like a caveman discovering fire. Children in the 50's when they first came out with TV. Robert Downey Jr. when he first discovered blow. Jenna Jameson when she discovered her power and earning power. Apparently I can even hook up my PS2 and Dreamcast easily whenever I wish to use them. Good Times!

Let's just say I'll be preoccupied for a spell.

There's a very good reason why I run my errands and such as early in the morning as possible: my sheer peace of mind. To explain: less chance of being inundated with shapely young adorables, who tend to distract me from my tasks. Especially when I'm feeling less than optimal. Like, say, TODAY. So when I went to my local Safeway after work at about 9 a.m., with a driving sleet/snow/rain type dealio going on, I figured I was safe as houses.

Uh, no. Sorry, ace. Pretty much everywhere I looked, from the college girl customers to the college girl employees; almost nothing but hot snatch on the hoof. I nearly burst into tears, but instead opted for the ever-popular extremely bitter guy what I can be on occasion. Then I went wah wah wah all the way home. At least I didn't run into my neighbor in the parking lot, to add to my difficulties and woes.

So I'm on the train going to work last night, when I find myself seated across from this scraggly-looking guy who's all too eager to inform me that he's just been released from prison. Ordinarily, I'd ask what he was in for, but I wasn't in the mood. Naturally, he asks for spare change; I make up an excuse. There is, after all, a certain ritual to these things. A script, if you will. Sorry, guy, I'M the only freeloader I tolerate.

Next, he tries to leech a smoke. When he calls bullshit on my flimsy excuse (I didn't care enough to expend any effort); I casually inform him that had he really been in prison, he'd realize that if I WERE to give him a cigarette; he would have to give me HEAD and I didn't believe that either of us really wanted that. That's simply the way such transactions are conducted in prison, after all. First you're taking smokes, then before you know it you're taking facials. I told y'all I'm all about etiquette.

I could see the little wheels grinding in his skull, but he didn't bother me again, and I was able to resume reading my book. Sometimes, I enjoy happy endings, although I greatly prefer the ones where everybody dies. Nope, I wasn't especially worried about him dealing the play. I believe I may have mentioned my complete lack of concern for my personal well being once or 2X. Well, that and by the time he recovered from a swift steel-toed boot to the testes, I'd have my box-cutter at his eye. I wouldn't want to test my resolve to cut someone's throat at a time like that, or my knife's (it's fairly small, but sharp) ability to do so.

Besides, if you pull a knife, you'd best be ready to use it, and you might be able to skate on assault charges. Manslaughter and up is a different kettle of fish.

When we choose not to visit or confront the past, the past will choose to visit and confront US. Simple as that. Fortunately or un, I myself rarely have that particular problem as I tend to live in the past. 1992, to be precise. Damn, that was a good year.

There are days when I don't really exist for myself. Only in the way that I perceive that others view me. Which is to say, as a nonentity. And folks wonder why I sometimes feel so empty inside.

No, I won't be watching porn on my new bigscreen (today's allegedly the big day) TV. I never did so on my previous one, either, because, were I to do so I'd NEVER leave the house. Not that I do a great deal of that now or anything. I'd simply be too entranced by the images cascading Before My Eyes.

I keep hoping that the stars will converge for me the way they did when Frampton (one album wonder) Comes Alive hit, and everything will work out all copacetic-like. Why, yes, I DO still believe in Santa Claus. Why do you ask?

Y'all may or may not have surmised that when it comes to the womenfolks, it doesn't really require a great deal to either encourage or, conversely, discourage me. Aren't I complex in my simplicity? Curse you, mixed signals (shakes fist menacingly)! You'll be the Death of me yet.

Of course, anytime a woman fails to tell me to, you know, fuck off; I view it as possible interest. Ever the optimist am I. And yes, I HAVE had women tell me to fuck off in the past. Okay, woman. Hmmm...I wonder what she's doing now?

Yes, I am that transparent. Yes, I still have a Crush on K. No, it's nowhere near as all-encompassing as it was before. I do wish she'd signed the petition (http://www.petitiononline.com/dlm1218/petition.html), though. Hopefully, all of you have, however. To, you know, ease my pain.

Come to think of it (the result of thinking about it all night), she never even introduced her BF to me as her BF. She simply said his name. I STILL haven't gotten the ever-popular I Have a Boyfriend speech. Oh, the humanity.

This is why thinking is bad and I refrain from doing so wherever and whenever possible.

The list:

1) Sabrina (the very cute, very sweet girlfriend of a close friend of mine back in high school whom I had a little bit of a Crush on. nope, I NEVER learn. although, if I'd have been thinking straight that night, there was one party, after they'd broken up, shortly before I moved to Calgary; when I had a shot. sigh. story of my life, missed opportunities and wasted chances.)

2) Sabrina Ferilli (one of Italy's best known celebrities, especially after her 2001 public striptease when her favorite soccer team won the Italian title, thus further proving my thesis that only the women involved with soccer are interesting and worth watching.)

3) Sabrina Lloyd (I quite enjoyed her work as Wade on the classic What If? sci-fi series, Sliders. she's also done a Patrick Swayze straight-to-video-type flick, which is reason enough to include her.)

4) Mistress Sabrina Belladonna (one of 3 proprietrices/dominatrices running fetishdomain.com I dig her name, and I'm ALL about pain some days.)

5) Sexy Sabrina (billed as Submissive Secretary Slut, which was promising; then I read on: Stocking Wearing..Anal Loving..Boss Pleasing..Kinky Thinking..Dirty Bitch! I'm quite taken with her job description, oddly enough, it almost makes me want to go out and get a REAL job; you know, one with a secretary of my very own.)

All right, I've run long again (I just can't seem to stop doing that, ask yo' mama), terribly sorry. Off for a brief nap, then I've got to be awake for when/if my new TV gets delivered. Naturally, whenever my disk space Scenario gets straightened out, there'll be pictures aplenty of my new baby for y'all to admire and envy. In the meantime, I may be on again this afternoon, but, regardless, only one more sleep until the weekend. Yay! Oh wait, my weekend started at 8 this morning. Never mind. False alarm.

And a brief one, at that, until my new TV is allegedly going to be delivered. Quite looking forward to it, as it appears that my beloved Houston Astros have vanquished the hated St. Louis Cardinals to advance to their 1st ever World Series, and now I'll be able to watch it. Yay, me! Yay, team! Stand up, sit down, fight fight fight. Sorry, I got a little carried away there. All caught up in the moment and shit. Dreadful etiquette, humblest apologies.

I also apologize for rambling on and on and, yes, on this morning, but last night, the craziest shit just kept popping into my head and I just had to write it down and share it. Also, I failed to notice that I left off one of the www w's in the link this a.m. Needless to say, my editor has gotten a pink slip with his paycheque this week. Fucking sod. I simply cannot have that shit.

Saint of the Day: Joss Whedon. I finished his graphic novel, Fray, this morning. It's about a future vampire slayer, and ain't too shabby. Now, I'm reading one of his takes on the X-Men franchise. I certainly hope that the rumors of an updated movie version of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (more like the series, although I enjoyed the more camp version, especially Luke Perry's hair don't) come to fruition. Soon.

A hearty much obliged to the assistant supervisor of my department, Sunil, for pulling midnight shifts on Tuesday nights (the nights when I get up early for volleyball afore work) and making BADLY needed coffee runs. Sometimes, he even buys, although if he demanded it; I'd buy EVERY Tuesday night, as coffee's pretty much the only thing keeping me upright those nights. Well, that and the crystal meth. But that's just our little secret. Shhh.

Heartfelt condolences to friend and coworker Harvinder on the sudden and tragic passing of her brother recently. My hopes and prayers go out to her and her family. No, I'm not completely fucking heartless or self-absorbed. Even if I often seem that way.

So my lovely neighbor actually e-mailed me back this a.m. Fairly soon (oddly and rarely enough) after I'd sent her a brief note to thank her for helping us out (just being polite, no hidden agenda) last night and to apologize for not introducing her (I'll likely never forgive myself for THAT gaffe) to everybody; and for, you know, running into the poor woman (fucking TWICE!, if memory serves) and to wish her luck in locating her misplaced driver's licence. Sometimes even I do the right thing. But don't tell anybody, or I'll have you fucking executed. Surprisingly enough, her reply wasn't to tell me to fuck off and quit bothering her. I really am conceited and convinced, aren't I? Some days I can hardly Stand myself.

Anyway, it sounds like she may be receptive to playing for us again. And she even e-mailed me back, which is understandably rare. She's got a boyfriend, after all. Perhaps I'm moving up in her estimation. Now, if only I could move up in my own. More likely, it was because I wasn't expecting a reply; it's simply polite to thank someone (especially someone attractive) when they do you a solid. Aren't I just the regular little Emily Post, though?

All right, time to leave for work. Enjoy what's left of your evening, y'all. Sleep well.

There are few things in this life as pretty as the last few minutes before sunrise in the mornings. Especially when there's a little bit of a chill in the air and the sky's just a smidge purplish still, before slowly mixing with gold and red and orange. Like this morning.

Or maybe I was just All Fired Up from staring at the cute, TALL (I'm 6'5'') womenfolks on the train home from work. Like I said: heart of a poet, soul of a clown, 3rd grade social skills. But I'll get to that in a spell.

But first:

Thanks to Leah of Talking With a Lisp (also here on blogspirit.com, check it out) for her comment yesterday. Nope, you're not alone. I'm totally envious of witty and intelligent things other folks say, man enough to admit it, and more than happy to give them the proper respect for their viewpoints and such. And no, YOU rock.

The petition to Save (my beloved) Dead Like Me is now well over 51200 signatures. If you haven't signed it yet, take a moment or 2, stop by http://www.petitiononline.com/dlm1218/petition.html and do so, s'il vous plait. My new TV arrives tomorrow (touch wood), and I'd very much like to be able to catch the show again on my 51'' of fury (thanks, Jay) for Season III. To all of you what have signed already, a hearty much obliged.

All right, last night's volleyball efforts:

Yes, Kendra showed up, although she was fashionable-like; arriving mere moments before gametime. Yes, I was more than a little worried she might flake. Yes, I'm Paranoid. It's another word for longevity.

Initially, once we started to play, I had a great deal of nervous energy and was unable to, like, focus; because she was there and I looked fucking HORRID! (still do, as a matter of actual and factual), but I settled down and played fairly well overall. Aw hell, who'm I bullshitting? I was every-fucking-where (we ALL were, that was the best we've played all year), all arms and legs and, naturellement, cock.

I was even able to serve, despite the problems I've been having in that area thus far this year. I find that if I pace myself to the 2nd verse and/or the chorus of Kelly Clarkson's (Yes, Carl, I really DO like her music as much as I profess; what can I say? I'm an enigma wrapped inside a riddle and all that. Maybe I'll get a question mark tattoo.) Gone when serving, I tend to do better. Why, yes, I am mildly eccentric. Thanks for noticing. Or perhaps it was simply the fact that I wanted to play well with K there.

And I did, although I somehow managed to throw out BOTH shoulders during the course of the evening. And, because it is I, I managed to run into her (luckily, she was all right); more than once, if I recall. I also managed to run into another attractive and taken woman on the squad, Tamara, as well. Terribly sorry, Doc, I'm really glad you're both all right.

I believe I may have mentioned I've got that whole bull in a china cabinet vibe (even worse than in an actual shoppe) going on. Even if a nice, also taken, woman on my team last year once told me that I'm quite graceful on the court, especially when I'm up at the net. Nope, I don't believe that I ever ran HER over. Whew.

At least no one got hurt. That's what matters. And K was an even better player than I'd remembered. I hope: a) that we can convince her to come out OFTEN and 2) that I look better when next she does. Yes, I e-mailed her this morning to thank her for coming out last night. Sometimes, I DO actually remember my manners. More on that later, also.

Anyway, a hearty much obliged to my lovely neighbor for making the trek across hell's half acre (I hope you're able to locate your misplaced driver's licence) to help us out and elevate our play, and to everyone on the squad for sitting up with me at the pub next door to my store before I started my shift last night. All in all, I think things went pretty well, all things considered. Oh, wait, apparently there's a dissenting viewpoint (somehow, I suspected there might be):

Dear Fucking Loser:

Whoever told you that you knew how to play volleyball was either too polite to say anything, a really bad liar, or just plain mean; letting you believe that you knew what you were doing. Want me to beat them up for you, you big fucking sissy? You're still too weak to just step to me like a man, so I can Crush your pathetic little hopes.

In fact, you're lucky I don't kick YOUR worthless, freeloading (you're DAMN lucky you didn't ask me for a ride, chump) ass for dragging me out to the middle of nowhere; where the only people I know are Carl and Kim and whatever it is that YOU are, and then having the balls to run into me. ME! I'm going to send My Guy (remember him? he's still laughing at you, we ALL are) over to Stately Deranged Manor to have a little talk with you. Learn you some manners, even.

At least you didn't like try to speak to me or anything, beyond the basic niceties; but you could've introduced me to everybody, you hopeless fuck. They're called social graces. No wonder your wife kicked you to the curb. Oh, and I'd REALLY like to thank everybody for making me sit next to you at the pub. What a fucking treat. Nice cologne, though. Very citrusy. And those were some stylin' boots, too. Quite out of your league. Just like ME! Hardy har fucking har.

If I have to hear that lame fucking story about how you got married in Las Vegas on a first date (even if some of these folks hadn't heard it before); I swear to god I'm gonna claw out my own eyes with a shrimp fork. Yes, you ARE as boring as you look. Just fucking DEAL with it, 'kay? Accept that which you cannot change.

Nice complexion, by the way. What are you, like 16? Two words: derma-brasion. Learn it. Know it. Live it. And then you wonder why I don't want to have anything to do with you. Two more words: clue-less.

Anyway, thanks for inviting me out, I had a good time. Let me know if you need me again.

Love and Kisses,

K

Thanks to my inner critic, Cindi, for making a most triumphant return this morning. You've been missed, girl. Love the new spelling. Sadly, Cindi's nowhere near off the mark on this one. Sigh. And, yes, I apologized to K for not introducing her to everybody. I knew I should, but since I really just wanted to, like, HIDE; I didn't.

Thanks also to:

- Carl for coming to pick me up since I was too fucking gutless to ask K for a ride

- Kim for the All Hallow's Eve party invite

- the shapely young adorables on our first opponents last night for frequently bending over, thereby distracting me from staring at my neighbor TOO much

- a cute brunette on our 2nd opponents

- our buxom/exotic waitress and several of the patrons at the pub

- Tamara for asking if my quite surreal wedding experience was borrowed from an episode of Friends; entirely possible, but completely unintentional if true

And yes, the whole time I was sitting beside her, I wanted to brush that one errant lock of her hair off her forehead and look deeply into her eyes. Wondering what it'd be like to be on a date with her. Holding her hand. Learning about her hopes and dreams and such. I SO fucking suck, don't I?

Apparently, it's going to be even harder than I'd suspected (read: Herculean task) to just Walk Away. As always, I'm working on it, though. It's really for the best. Sigh.

The list:

1) Jodi Shaw (singer/songwriter called a cross betwixt Suzanne Vega and Shawn Colvin by one reviewer. her song In Cabrini-Green comes preloaded on every new RAVE-MP3 player. she's kinda cute, in a quirky way, too.)

2) Jodi Benson (Broadway actress. voice of Ariel in The Little Mermaid. voice of Barbie (whom we hate) in various TV ads, one thing, along with reality shows, that I don't miss not having a TV.)

3) M. Jodi Rell (Governor of Connecticut since July, 2004. I like the word Connecticut, sue me.)

4) Jodi Leigh Miller (boomin' fitness model. writer, personal trainer, and certified English teacher, to boot. a real Renaissance woman.)

5) Jodi Seidler (creator of Making Lemonade; the single parent network.)

Things ran a mite long today, I had a lot of time last night to ''think'', and this is the result. Enjoy your humpday, y'all. Celebrate it accordingly.

Just over an hour and a half until I get to see my lovely neighbor again (good) and she's forced to see me (not so), too. I e-mailed her this morning to make sure that she was, in fact, still coming; as we're going to be short womenfolks otherwise. Hell to the NO, I didn't ask her for a ride...I want her to see as little of me as fucking possible. To tell you the god's (or whoever) honest truth, I want to see as little of me as possible. It's awfully hard to shave when one can't really stand to look at himself in the mirror, though.

So I was perusing a blog entitled Balls (of yarn) Deep in Euphoria a few minutes ago (as I do on occasion, and you should, too; it's well-written and about the feelings and emotions and other good things that you'll rarely see here), and I must say that I was quite taken with a certain phrase the nice woman used:

- faceless sadness, with a parasol

Dude, that fucking rocks! I totally wish that I'd come up with that one myself.

Speaking of envy:

I badly want my own and then I died on the way to the hospital (or on the operating table), but they were able to revive me-type story. I reckon I'll have to start doing more and harder drugs then. Done and by golly done.

Shout outs:

- the latest version of iTunes now apparently plays videos, too, although I just got it this morning before sleepytime and haven't really checked it out yet

- thanks to the good folks at Clinique for sending me a coupon for a free sample of their new eye cream; whether or not I'll actually use either of them is still up for debate

- I'm thankful for Uncle Ben and his packets of Bistro Express (ready in 2 minutes) rice, as I'm often lazy and pressed for time; well, that, and I really don't know how to cook very many things (and, yes, I AM eating some this very minute, thanks for asking)

So I'm listening to some upbeat, psych-up type tunes, trying to will myself not to go and hide under my bed. So far, it's not going especially well, but I'm battling. I know I'll go, as it'd take a lot, circumstances-wise for me to miss a volleyball game. After all, I'm trying to work my way back into shape sos I can join next year's AVP Tour. Karch Kiraly's retiring, and Mike Lambert's gonna need a new partner. So I'm going to focus on that, and, you know, pretty much avoid Kendra tonight altogether, other than to say hey or something equally suave and debonair. I fucking KNEW I should've bought me one of them toques what covers your whole head, except for your eyes. Next chance I get, although it'll be quite warm to play volleyball in, and I sweat too much as it is.

Anyway, light a candle, say a prayer, wish me luck. I'm damn sure gonna need it.

What the FUCK is trans fat, anyway? Should I care?

I'm guessing: uh, no.

Well, today's the big day, and, sadly, things seem to have gone from worse to worst. Now, I've got what looks like a KS lesion on my chin and another on my forehead. Good Times! As usual, I've skipped bad and cut right to the chase. I'll have to hurry today, as I need to find an emergency dermabrasion clinic that'll take me in sometime during the next 6 to 8 hours. Sleep? I'll get ALL the sleep I need after I'm perished.

Needless to say, tonight will go poorly. But my glass will be half full. Of what, I haven't decided yet. Sure, I have to go to work right afterwards, but it's not like I operate heavy machinery or drive or anything; so no big.

The only positive to all of this is that I don't have to worry about trying to be all cool guy, or that I might confess my feelings to her. Now, I'll be content if I can even look her in the eye, make polite conversation, perhaps. No pressure is good pressure.

And DAMN it'll feel good to hit the ball tonight. Work out my anger at myself and shit.

I simply must cease treating the womenfolks like they're made of glass, as, thus far, it's really gotten me nowhere. All part and parcel of always being the biggest (yes, THAT way, too) and having to look out for those smaller than I. Much work required to overcome years of practice.

I see that the ghost of Shoeless Joe Jackson has finally guided the Chicago White Sox back into the World Series, to atone for the loss they suffered (if y'all haven't seen it, check out the classic Eight Men Out) back in, what, 1919? I wish the team well, unless, of course, they play my beloved Houston Astros. Then all bets are off.

Some folks are even more dangerous to themselves unintentionally than I am intentionally to myself. Par exemple: a guy I work with, also named Chris, has been suffering from insomnia (quelle coincidence, non?); one day last week, at 3 a.m., wide awake, rather than simply going in to work early, he took 2 (TWO!) of his mom's Valium (I had no idea Valium was even still available; aren't I out of touch?). So, long story a smidge less so, he slept about 14 hours, thereby missing his shift at 8 a.m.

Voice of Reason what I can be (as much as I hate to), I suggested he might want to try something over-the-counter-like. Perhaps a little less potent. And maybe, just maybe, only one at a time.

Song of the Day: The Archies- Sugar Sugar. I heard it on the radio Last Night, and, since I was All By Myself (check out the Babes in Toyland cover version; LOVE me some Kat Bjelland, even her name is cool); I was able to bop around like as though I were all liquored-up and work on my Swim.

No matter how bad one's day is, it's nothing that visions of degrading 3-ways with Betty and Veronica can't cure.

Yesterday's Dreams:

- sharing a hotel room in Las Vegas with some (real-life) strangers who were apparently my friends, along with Kelly Clarkson and some of her friends (hey, it was a BIG fucking room); KC and I were bonding, getting all touchy-feely and such, but, sadly, I was awoken by a sharp, banging noise before Ms. Clarkson and I could make one of our own, sigh

- prepping for the S.A.T. or some such, only to discover that the category American Idol (?) comprised 12.5% of the final score; realizing (and stating) that ALL that I know about the show is that Kelly Clarkson won the 1st one, I attempt to play the cultural bias card, claiming that ''I don't watch that shit, I'm a little more cultured than that''; to no avail, sigh

Honey, I'm always furious, so you can't make me mad.

There's just something so peaceful and serene in practicing the Zen of simple, repetitive, and meaningless tasks. it's quite soothing. Like. At least that's what I try to convince myself when I'm at my brain dead gig. Whiling away the hours of darkness, trying to keep busy.

The list:

1) Colleen Doran (illustrator and writer who has worked on Spiderman, Sandman, Teen Titans, Silver Surfer and many others. has spent years crafting what is believed to be the 1st graphic novel solely produced by a female creator, A Distant Soil; and, yes, she's kinda fly.)

2) Colleen Gruber (model who appears as the hot blonde on the cover of over 1000 romance novels, which I found kinda neat, having always assumed the covers to be merely artists' renditions, not actual folk.)

3) Colleen Ross (painter whose work celebrates the nostalgic, reflecting her love of the movies of the 40's and 50's. in great demand as a portrait artist, her works have attracted the attention of such collectors as Teri Hatcher, Nicholas Cage, George Lucas, Priscilla Presley, Farrah Fawcett, and Gary Busey. her work is quite impressive, particularly the portraits.)

4) Colleen Shannon (romance novelist. sold her 1st book herself, sans bloodsucking leech (excuse me, agent), in less than a year, which is quite impressive.)

5) Colleen Haskell (apparently appeared on Survivor I (how many of them are there, anyway? and why?), she's got a certain je ne sais quoi, I suppose.)

Well, sleepytime (and hopefully more goofy Dreams) beckons, so I'll bid y'all adieu. Don't forget to sign the petition (http://www.petitiononline.com/dlm1218/petition.html) to Save Dead Like Me. If time permits before my Waterloo of a volleyball outing this evening, I'll be back. Take care.

I'm feeling quite afflicted today. In addition to the usual sense of being conflicted. Not one of the good days, suffice it to say. But that's why it's Pattern Week, after all.

Since my train ride home this morning was delayed interminably by a ''passenger emergency'' further up the line; I've managed to kill about 1/4 of the new Bret Easton Ellis. It's pretty good. And informative: I had no idea he'd done guest spots on Family Ties, 90210, The Facts of Life, and Melrose. One learns something every day. Whether it's useful or not is completely irrelevant.

After reading the phrase ''Swallowing IS about communication, baby", I find myself spurred on to re-read all of his books (I usually read the first 3 at least once a year (I've read American Psycho probably 30 or 40 times, could y'all tell?); but, sadly, I've only read The Informers and Glamorama oncet each. Soon to be rectified.), and, whence I find myself with some spare time; I'll pick up my pen once again, and commit some more crimes against prose, literature, the written word, and the English language. I'm quite looking forward to it. And, at the same time, dreading it, as I'm not sure what'll result; working sans muse the way I am. I reckon we'll just have to see, now, won't we?

On the positive tip: Newbie Nudes.com now has 2 lovely Calgary ladies between the ages of 18 and whatever I set the outer parameter at for perusal. And The Good Kind of pictures, to boot.

The petition (http://www.petitiononline.com/dlm1218/petition.html) to Save Dead Like Me rapidly approaches 51100. Watch the show tonight at 10 ET/PT on Showcase and see what I'm begging y'all to try to help save. Then sign, if you haven't already. Tell your friends to sign, also. Hell, ask 'em, even. Whatever. Tell them they'll be doing a good deed and helping to keep some fucking psycho (read:ME) off a ledge somewhere.

I, for one, miss the XFL. From the slutty cheerleaders (OK, especially them) to Governor Jesse the Body Ventura doing color commentary to the rather unique names on the backs of the jerseys. After this coming Tuesday...let's just say that if I were to purchase myself an XFL replica jersey on eBay, the name on the back would be She Hate Me. Not very creative, I realize, but right now it'd be I Hate Me, so at least I'm moving in A direction if not the right one.

Always choose Dare. No one gives a flying fuck about Truth. Especially if you're an experimentally inclined womanfolks. Then we all want to see you in action. Preferably with other experimentally inclined shapely young adorables, if it can't be with us.

Saint of the Day: James Woods. I've been thinking of the movie Diggstown and his release from prison in said movie of late.

I simply must learn to imply, never explain. That way I can achieve the full potential of my mopiness.

R...A...G...G...M...O...P...P...Rag Mop. Simply because I can.

It must be difficult to retain one's Alcoholic's Anonymity when one is a celebrity in rehab. Do they put you behind one of those screens where only your silhouette is visible and arm you with a voice disguiser?

Or when one is in rehab WITH a celebrity, for that matter. What with all the tabloids-folk following said fallen idol around and all.

A fond farewell to Brett Hull of the Phoenix Coyotes, who retired this past weekend after many years and even more goals scored and solid quotes in the NHL. He'll be missed...especially by the 2 fantasy hockey teams on which I had him. Even if he wasn't doing a whole lot this year.

Big shout out to the girl standing beside me on the train this morning, who used the delay to break out a big ol' lollipop and provide herself with nourishment and l'il ol' me with inspiration and entertainment. I couldn't even focus on my book, her technique was that good. Good looking out, honey. Much obliged.

The list:

1) Mary Jane (I like the shoes, the drug, the band the Mary Jane Girls, Kirsten Dunst's big rack in the wet T-shirt scene in the 1st Spiderman, and the Cypress Hill song I Love You Mary Jane. the name itself implies a more innocent and carefree time that I'll admit I'm more than a little nostalgic for.)

2) Liza Jane (there were some shapely young adorables in the video for this pretty cool Vince Gill tune.)

3) Jane (even though I despise the Bare Naked Ladies and this song, a guy I work with likes to break into the chorus at the strangest times, as off-key as possible; and it never fails to make me giggle like a nervous virgin seeing her 1st cock on prom night. yeah, like THAT happens anymore, do they even still MAKE virgins?)

4) Hannah Jane (one of the few songs on the 1st Hootie and the Blowfish disc (yeah, I got it from one of those C.D. clubs, after reading about it in a comic strip, Sally Forth, if memory serves) that didn't make it to the radio. which is odd, as it's the best song on the disc and one well worth cranking up to 11 and dancing the frug until one's eyes bleed. or maybe that's just me, anyway, it's a surprisingly cool tune by a completely unhip band. don't think I don't know that many of y'all have or had the disc, also. go on, admit it, it's cathartic to own up to such things. I feel better, and you will, too.)

5) Sweet Jane (both the Velvet Underground and the Cowboy Junkies interpretations of this one are quite good. for some reason, I keep wanting to think that Leonard Cohen has one, too, but don't quote me on that.)

All right, I'm off to eat 2X and check my various pools and e-mail accounts before bedtime. Just 2 more sleeps before my final and ultimate humiliation. Can't Hardly Wait. At least I'll have the dubious, but VERY real, satisfaction of knowing definitively that it is I; not my thoughts, words, or deeds, that repulses her. Yay, me! Needless to say, I've some heavy drinking planned in the very near future.

Whatever became of the Sneaker Pimps, anyway? I really really really like their song 6 Underground (why, yes, I AM quite open to falling from grace, thank you very much); in fact, I bought the soundtrack to The Saint (awesome movie, by the way: love me some Kilmer) purely for that song. I haven't even listened to the rest of it. Luckily, I bought it at a pawnshop or some such, so it didn't cost too much.

Then they did The Long Hard Road Out of Hell (good book, too) with Marilyn Manson for the Spawn soundtrack. Then they seem to have fallen off the edge of the earth (for all you flatearthers out there) after their 15 minutes had expired. Sigh. Please come back. You're sorely missed.

Heartfelt condolences to the family and friends of Atlanta Hawks' centre Jason Collier, who passed away early Saturday morning at the age of 28, of what is believed to be cardiac arrest.

I recently learned that former Marilyn Manson bassist Twiggy Ramirez is now a member (under his real name) of Nine Inch Nails. Yes, I'm still planning to go to the concert, and will likely go and pick up my ticket (one, uno, as I'm a total singleton) this coming Friday. Unless, of course, I'm completely mesmerized by the beauty of my new (2nd, trophy) bigscreen TV, allegedly arriving on Thursday afternoon. And I'll likely get a ticket for the Rollins' spoken word show then, also, what with all the monies I saved by having the 'rents decide to give me the TV for xmas. Yay, 'rents!

At last glance, the petition (http://www.petitiononline.com/dlm1218/petition.html) to Save Dead Like Me is now over 51000 signatures. Good work, y'all. Keep 'em coming. And some of the comments left are pretty insightful. Don't forget to watch the show Monday nights at 10 ET/PT and see for yourself just why I'm so devoted to it.

Did You Know: former MTV News hottie Tabitha Soren (WAY cool handle, by the way) appears in the Beastie Boys (You Gotta) Fight For Your Right (To Party) video. She's the one who doesn't end up with pie in her hair. I like to think, however, that once the cameras stopped rolling and she was pulling the train; she ended up with all kinds of other things in her hair. On her face. In each of her 3 inputs.

What can I say, I'm a hopeless romantic.

So, as I'm making my weekly Sunday carton of eggs and package of turkey bacon breakfast, I realized that I don't even especially LIKE eggs. Or bacon. But they're easy to make. Aren't I complex? Not overly, no.

I have different personalities I adopt according to who I'm speaking/interacting with. We all do. You pretty much have to. One must, for instance, act differently than how one actually feels in order to get pussy. Or a job.

Whenever I find myself needing guidance and/or strength, when I feel I've lost my way; I recall Madonna's all-too-believable performance in Desperately Seeking Susan (which changed cinema history, I'll have you know: now there are all kinds of musicians appearing in films, whereas before it was pretty much Elvis and Frank). And I smile and I laugh and I go back to getting the living shit kicked out of me by Fate and Karma.

I find myself both anticipating and dreading Tuesday night. I'm even pondering faking an at-Death's-door-type illness. A forest fire. A death in the family. You know, an excuse not to play. Don't get me wrong, it'll be great to see K again. Where the trouble comes into Paradise is that she'll also see ME. Sadly, I look less than optimal at the moment. Sigh. Story of my life.

And, of course, when I play volleyball I tend to get extremely sweaty and kinda gross. Fuck but I'm a conceited bastard, ain't I?

I do believe that if I were to make up one of those getting to know one's friends-type questionnaires, the query: By What Means Would You Most Like To Die? would be one of the first 5 questions posed.

My personal first instinct is to say with a needle in my arm and 2 or more dead hookers beside me in the bed, but that just sounds too been there, done that; so I'ma give this one some thought and get back to y'all.

All right, I've yet another draft (hopefully Java will cooperate today: it fucking shut down on me a bunch of times yesterday) in about 25 minutes, and breakfast to consume, so the list (since I find myself re-entering some unpleasant old patterns, it is again Pattern Week):

1) Jenny (867-5309) (Tommy Tutone's (check out the live Goo Goo Dolls cover, too) seminal 80's hit which drove phone companies and customers nuts. if any of y'all live in Philly, apparently you can buy the (area code 215) number on eBay for a paltry $39999 USD; a bargain at twice the price. if y'all get the chance, check out some of the websites devoted to this song, as some of them are pretty cool, especially the one wherefore the proprietor calls every single area code's version of the #; looking for a girl named Jenny. I believe there was one in NYC.)

2) Jenny May (singer/co-songwriter for The Babylon Cowboys; no idea what kind of music they play, dug the name. no word on whether or not she's related to Maggie, although I'm guessing no.)

3) Jenny Bristow (celebrity chef with 4 books, at least one TV program and, allegedly, a fairly devoted following.  she lives near the Irish village of Cullybackey. which is, of course, why she's here.)

4) Jenny (the last woman I went on an actual date with before the big one in Las Vegas. she worked at the same place as I once upon a time, as a cashier (a job I could NEVER do, hating people the way I do); and also worked at the book place downtown. cute and cool, met her through a friend. I believe I may have mentioned that I need my friends to procure for me.)

5) Jenny Holzer (artist whose work has appeared in the Guggenheim, amongst other museums. her main focus is on disseminating (LOVE that word) her ideas within public spaces. kind of a guerilla approach- texts and subtexts that comment on their environment as well as our social conditioning, which, of course, determines how we react to these texts and subtexts. I'm not explaining it overly well, but check out her site; it's a pretty neat appraoch to art.)

Yay, Pattern Week! Enjoy your Sunday morning, and I'll likely be back later.

By Reverend Christian A. Manson, Esq.

I saw a squirrel. And a bunny rabbit. The squirrel was running, scurrying, even; gathering nuts before the coming winter months. Good for him. Me, I've always been the grasshopper in that story. Lazy as fuck, you might say. The bunny rabbit hopped across the street and up a hill through someone's yard. Just like Peter Cottontail, hopping down the fucking trail or something like that. I was this close to chasing the little bastard, the bunny, that is. Throw him in the pot, I'm hungry and such.

Why, no, I still haven't opened the e-mail from my lovely neighbor replying to my invitation for her to join our volleyball squad for our game on Tuesday and a tournament next Saturday. Even though fucking Yahoo (which is really beginning to PISS me off, by the by) keeps giving me 3 or 4 loud (I'm listening to my 2701 songs on shuffle, yay, iTunes!) pop-up notices (when 1 would surely do) every 15 or 20 minutes to remind me that I've got mail. Why, yes, I'm more than a little afeard that she'll be telling me to fuck off and leave her alone in the VERY near future. Why, yes, I AM being kind of a big pussy about the whole Scenario, thanks for asking. I keep trying to Walk Away (another Kelly Clarkson song that's starting to grow on me), but continue to fail miserably. Story of my life. Sigh.

I'll do it later, I've got another draft starting in 7 minutes, so likely shortly afterwards; as I've got to let the boys know whether or not we need to look for alternative womenfolks, volleyball-wise. Which fits nicely with my theory that all of us are pretty much interchangeable, by the way. Sorry, I'm just in a weird place today: my lactose intolerance (as yet another Yahoo pop-up goes off) has chosen today to act up for me. The result is several all too obtrusive like fucking WELTS scattered here, there, and everywhere about my face. Good fucking Times! Especially when I had to leave the Manor today and, now, may have to be seen by the Crush this week.

Added to which indignity, I've still got to figure out how to free up cap space on this fucking thing so I can post more pictures. Pictures=traffic, after all. I love traffic, it's my raison d'etre.

All right, duty calls, I'll be back as soon as I'm able.

Back temporarily, still have 3 more drafts to go through this afternoon. Non-stop excitement hereabouts of late. All part and parcel of being The Last of the Famous International Playboys. To drop some more Morrissey on y'all. Nope, not overly concerned with his sexual preference. None of my business. All that matters to I is that the dude can sing, croon even. And he's got cool hair. Although I'm not overly thrilled with the whole vegetarianism issue, but that's simply because meat is my bread and butter, job-wise.

Anyway, fucking Java has already locked up/crashed 2X on me in the past hour and a half, which tends to fuck things up when one is in the midst of a live online procedure. And I'm being continually bombarded with notices that I've got mail. Fucking Yahoo. I REALLY truly, madly, and deeply need to learn how to set my preferences. E-mails from me are addressed as being from cm, and, thus, easily identified as spam; even when they're not. I either get notified of incoming e-mails like an hour or all day after the fact; or else every 10 or 15 minutes, even after I've read and discarded and/or replied to them. Sigh. Me hate technology. Captain Caveman smash shiny box with big fucking club.

My visit to the library (the one I'm cheating on my local library by patronizing) proved most fruitful. Even if the weather was WAY too humid and I ended up with sweat fucking pouring off my face in the proverbial rivulets and streams. VERY attractive, by the way, as I'm sure y'all can well imagine. I only had to see one PDA today, and, since it was two elderly folks holding hands; it was more quaint and cute than annoying and angering, so that wasn't too bad. Nobody needed to get got. Which can be a good or a bad thing, depending upon how one views things. One's outlook on life, as it were. And I think y'all have a fairly firm grasp upon mine, even if I don't always.

My 1st year of University, my nickname was Rain Man. I've always been pretty much halfway to being an idiot savant, after all.

OK, time to jump. Be back soonest.

Wreck of the Day: Everyone that has drafted superstar/wunderkind Amare Stoudemire of the Phoenix Suns in the 1st round of fantasy basketball drafts, despite the fact that he's not going to be suiting up for a game for at least 4 months. How to stay current. Way to go, ace. I don't even have a fucking TV, and I knew he was out. Whatever. Not my crisis. It simply makes it easier for me to WIN (rubs hands together with anticipation and glee).

Back again. I've got an entire hour until my next draft, so I'll likely finish up. I've got some Sheena Easton (I really should've seen her in concert when I was last in Las Vegas) on the stereo, so I'm pretty much good to go. I opened my e-mail from K, and it was relatively innocuous-like. And another bullet is dodged. Until Tuesday, when she'll be coming out to play with our squad. Yay, team! We'll have to see if the trend of me playing better when in her presence extends to volleyball as well as softball. More importantly, I MUST do everything in my power to not go all bull in a china shop and run her over. Knock her off her feet, as it were. I kinda have a history of that sort of thing. I ran into my boy Jay last year, and he sorta ceased making it out to the games after that. I may be kinda thin, but I'm wiry. And I have absolutely NO regard for my personal well-being.

Clear the tracks baby, There's A Train A Comin'. But I digress.

Whilst at the library, I managed to secure the latest Bret Easton Ellis (my favorite author, ever since American Psycho) novel, Lunar Park. In the 1st minute after I'd entered the place. Score! And I managed to fucking load up on comic books, too. A productive day, as I love me some comic books. Excuse me, graphic novels. I've already managed to kill one today, and it was pretty damn good. A Green Lantern (my favorite superhero) tome, entitled Brother's Keeper, in which one of the main characters gets jumped and beaten just this side of Death by some yokels merely because he's gay. I found myself misting up at the injustice of it all. I know, I'm a big fucking sissy. Sue me. Injustice has always pulled my punk card; you should've seen me cry when I watched Do the Right Thing. Not a pretty fucking sight, let me tell you.

And at the end of Boyz 'N' The Hood.

And at the end of The Empire Strikes Back, although I think that holds true for damn near EVERY guy out there. Whether or not they'll admit it is likely a different story, however. Fucking Han Solo, man. I still get choked up, just thinking about it. There, that's enough, lest I get labelled as one of them Star Wars chatroom geeks.

Nope, I'm not gay, but feel free to think I am, if it pleases you.

I also secured the biography of Anthony Kiedis (even though I'm not a big Red Hot Chili Peppers fan), which I strongly suspect will be the best heroin diary I've read since How To Stop Time. Although I think The Basketball Diaries might be one of the best ever. Aside from the Beat writers, of course. I can't wait to get into this book. It should be revelatory. 

And I took out a bunch of other books about subjects and by authors that y'all likely have no knowledge of or interest in, so I won't bore you with the details. Aren't I considerate?

Next, I went shopping. Looking for Season I of Veronica Mars on DVD. Purchased. 22 episodes of Nancy Drew for the new millenium, filled with all the witty catchphrases with which I'm so enamoured. And more than a little bit jealous. There are few things in life more frightening than visiting WalMart on a Saturday, by the way. But I survived, and I'm all the stronger for it. Yay, me!

All right, I'm off to eat something before my next draft starts in 26 minutes. Enjoy your Saturday afternoon, y'all. Take care.

All kinds of strange goings-on, blog-wise these past couple of days. First I can't even access the fucking thing, not to read (which means noone else can read it, either=no stats; sigh), and not to post.

Then when I finally can access it, all the many pictures therein have magically vanished, as well as Google AdSense.

I'm able to reinstate AdSense finally, but apparently I've received half again as much bandwidth used as should actually be there, so I can't replace the photo albums. I don't know where all this extra bandwidth came from or how to send it back, but I'll work on it today.

Much love to the online gambling folks for making their most triumphant return to the comments column in the wee smalls of this morning. Y'all have been sorely missed. Please come back to me. Oops, sorry, I was thinking of someone else there for a minute. Anyway, whilst you're here, actually take a pause and read some of the inanities I come up with. Or at least click on some ads. Hey, I'd do it for YOU.

And sign the petition (http://www.petitiononline.com/dlm1218/petition.html) to Save Dead Like Me.

Lots to do today, so I'm just going to cut right to it:

1) Savanna Samson (yet another in a seemingly endless (thank the stars) line of HOT Vivid Girls. she celebrated a birthday yesterday, happy belated birthday. check out this 34-24-34 goddess' site The University of Savanna.com. yes, all in all, I'd rather be in Savanna; oh come on, you knew that was coming. Oops... I Did It Again.)

2) Haven Gaston (this shapely young adorable appears nude in the very underrated Colin Farrell vehicle Tigerland, which would be reason enough to check the film. she was Miss Venus Swimwear for 1999, and is a former Hooters Girl. check her out at the ever-popular bikini.com)

3) Jane Digby (a woman of beauty, connections, poetry and originality, as well as an intrepid traveller. from 1830-1891, her various exploits ensured that her name was rarely out of the newspapers. when she was middle aged, she married a Bedouin sheik young enough to be her son, and one can never feature too many MILFs, now can one?)

4) Gabrielle Richens (apparently nicknamed Pleasure Machine for her role as a stripper in a risque Virgin Atlantic Airlines ad. has also modelled for Pepsi (with Janet Jackson, nonetheless) and Heineken. appeared on the cover of Australian Playboy's 20th anniversary issue. yes, I'm still working on my Down Under joke. or is THAT the joke? sorry, it's much too early for ''thinking'', not that there's ever really a good time.)

5) Acantha (Greek nymph with the misfortune to be loved by someone (Apollo) whom she didn't love back (DAMN, that sounds awfully familiar, don't it?). when he tried to rape her (this part has no relevance to current or future events, but is merely how the myth goes), she scratched his face and, in his rage (again, nope), he transformed her into the acanthus tree.)

More drafts to do today. A trip to the bookplace. Figuring out what to eliminate hereabouts sos I can post some more goofy pictures. Possibly purchasing Season I of Veronica Mars. Oh yeah, and my lovely neighbor e-mailed me back last eve (yet another wild Friday night here at the Manor), and I've been avoiding opening the fucking thing, so I've got to do that, too. But I'll be back later, hopefully, my muse will as well.