Brad

Linear Progression Along the Temporal Path

Tue, 13 Dec 2005 22:50:32 GMT

I just had a birthday a couple of weeks or so ago. I’m older now than I was a few weeks ago. It’s funny how you can go a whole year being one age and then suddenly you’re older.

No matter your age in calendar years, you are either: young, middle-aged or old. And you very well might be all of them depending on the age of the beholder relative to yours. I rarely classify by age bracket, because it’s so unimaginative. I do, however, think of people my age as old. Much of the time, I look at folks who are younger than me and mid-consciously consider them my elders. This is a result of an unrealistic self image. Somewhere in my swirling eddy of a psyche, I continue to think of myself as young. I’m often inwardly surprised when I’m confronted with the reality of my true position in the chronological hierarchy.

I fall into the class of beings known as middle-aged. You can be middle-aged for quite a long time. There’s a big transitional gray area (no pun intended) between middle-aged and senior citizen. All reference to age status is relative and based on the knowledge that corporal existence is finite.

I’m happy to be my age. I’m happy to be any age…so far. However, I think I might prefer to be a little younger. It’s too bad that as one grows in experience and knowledge, that capacity to enjoy the experience or sometimes even to retain the knowledge is diminished. It’s said that youth is wasted on the young, but I think age is wasted on the old.

At times, those who have garnered significant years in existence peer into their pasts and rue that their youth was wasted on the trivial. Not me. I have few regrets. That’s not because I believe I made the correct decision in most instances or that my life has been charmed or something like that, but because regret is such a waste of time. Strangely enough, the times I most regret are the times I’ve spent regretting.

Anyway, I’m older and it’s not so bad. Just think…when you make a mistake or something unpleasant occurs; the older you are the less time you have to deal with it. Let’s face it, a hundred-and-six year old man sentenced to life imprisonment for some heinous crime might as well have shoplifted. As one ages, there is less time for earthly punishment. Maybe that’s why a lot of younger people seem adverse to old people. They’re just scared. So, kids, watch it. I’m older today and, baby, I got nothin’ to lose.

And More Band Names

Tue, 06 Dec 2005 01:25:20 GMT

• Tool Box
• Big Man Then
• The Boppin’ Dew-Daddies
• Sorry, Wrong Sandpaper
• Drunk With A Gun
• The Fakers
• Jungle Ted and the Countries
• Seven Again
• The Shorties
• Checklist
• The Insensitive Crotch Shakers
• Browner Than Usual
• Fickle Pork
• Putt-Putt Ovaries
• Flying Troublebugs
• Joseph and the Josephines
• Sticky
• Black Sheep Boys
• Volcano Junior
• Five Cats, All White
• The Tuna Pansies
• Nick Jupiter and the Craniacs
• Soup of Magnesia
• Tao Pong Tulips
• Atomizer
• Surviving Napoleon
• Allergy
• Blue Sunday
• The Victims
• Bucket Size
• Plenty Good MSG
• Alfredo and the Pastas
• Eye Color
• Love Faucet
• Them Cousins
• N. R. Minds and the Pipers
• Peck
• Crack Horse
• The Intangibles
• Pretty, But Dangerous
• Ali Bathtub and the Foamy Thieves
• Johnny Jack January
• I Ain’t No Doctor
• Rugs and Money
• Fried Ice
• Gorilla Next Door
• Lucky In Hell
• The Subatomic Knobs
• Cubic Carl and the Metrodes
• Too Weak To Twist
• Who’s New Shoes
• Betty In A Bunch
• Severance
• The Grains
• Wooly Mammoth
• Quartz
• Lefty The Great
• Sufferin’ Silence
• Ichabod As Can Be
• Pogo Magic Lepers
• Fear of Security
• Big Fat Liar
• Pecos Skeevy and the Mistakes
• Amandamonium
• Glue
• Bertha’s Growth

Politics

Tue, 06 Dec 2005 01:22:53 GMT

Everyone wants to make it better for their children than how they had it. This explains why people are always killing other people. More room for their kids to stretch out and relax.

Charity

Tue, 06 Dec 2005 01:17:34 GMT

If you want to feed the world, you'll have to get a great big can opener or a really big bag of dry food. You’ll probably also need a good-sized bowl or some kind of dish.

Finding Flat Stones

Tue, 06 Dec 2005 01:03:17 GMT

There is a sense
Essential to harmony,
And a sensibility
Of arrangement.

They are gifted
Who perceive the gift,
Bend and dig to reach
The invisible.

There is pleasure
In purpose, in focus.
Extracting singularity
From amalgam.

I know voices
Are murmuring abroad,
But this is more important.

More Telephony

Sun, 04 Dec 2005 22:22:37 GMT

After singing the Pledge of Allegiance to the tune of “Monster Mash” while balancing a trident candelabra on your nose, please enter, using your touchtone phone keypad, your 47 digit account number followed by the pound sign. Or if you’d like to talk to a representative, please grunt the words to “The Ballad of Ira Hayes” in Esperanto after the tone and stay on the line until our next available one employee on duty is available to talk to you from his or her prison cell in Sri Lanka. All calls will be answered in order of your perceived significance to our company. Your call is very important to us and may be monitored for quality assurance and possible humor value.

More Band Names

Sat, 03 Dec 2005 22:47:49 GMT

• Oil
• The Hyenas
• Scab
• Humpy
• The Atomic Donuts
• Stop The Fun
• Nobody Nose
• Tree
• The Return of Otis
• No Bowling Aloud
• All About Chicken
• Ester Blowmountain
• Fall Festering
• The Tyrones
• Jimmy Sees Apricot Stains
• Loop
• The Roasters
• I’m In The Tube, Damnit
• Grady & the Thunder Spoons
• Mary Fresh & the Squids
• Moist
• The Spores of War
• It Happened To Evelyn
• Splain Dat, President
• That Special Accident
• Stevie Suavé
• The Carnivores
• Bop Dog Daddy T-Larry Seven
• Ouch
• The Spinning Plasmas
• Truth In Atavism
• Joyce Stik & Frogger
• Light My Fur
• Failure
• Reverend Bongo
• The Anti-Dougs
• Phone Me Phone Me
• The Love Ghouls
• Man On The Moan
• Coopersmith Wadsworth
• Nice Hat
• Maggie Carport & the Sultans
• Duck Shapes
• Boneyard
• Oliver Twix
• The Repeaters
• The Repeaters
• Northwest Panties
• Lamp
• Fire Martin & the Chicago Huns
• The Repeaters
• Take Two, It’s Yesterday
• U Ain’t Kennedy
• Odometer Flange
• The Joseph Stalins
• Julian & the Violent Quakers
• Creamy Shakes
• The Repeaters
• Red Load
• The Repeaters
• The Repeaters

One Possibility Among Many

Sat, 03 Dec 2005 22:44:32 GMT

I’m sure I’ve stumbled upon the answer to an enigma that has plagued many of us. I mean…what the hell happened to Michael Jackson? Let’s face it, he was an really talented young man and actually a pretty good-looking dude when he came out with the Off The Wall album…and Thriller wasn’t too shabby for the first million or so times I heard it, but we all know, the Michael Jackson of today is not that same guy. Here’s what happened:

Those of us with long memories (old people) can harken back to when a few particularly famous fictional people were somehow imperfectly duplicated on a mysterious and incredible quasi-cube shaped planet called Bizarro World. Superman and Lois Lane were, for some reason, cloned into chalk-white chiseled stone-faced perverse doppelgangers who behaved in almost opposite extreme of their originals. They dwelled in queer homes on an unbelievably strange version of Earth. Their intellect was greatly lacking and oddly degenerate behavior was the norm. In addition, we remember that Bizarro Superman and Bizarro Lois actually came to our planet and wreaked havoc until they were forced back to their topsy-turvy home.

Now, take a look at what, at present, passes for Mr. Jackson. I’m certain that the real thing has been replaced by Bizarro Michael. Its appearance is definitely pale and stonelike with only a remote resemblance to the original. Its I.Q. is limited and its actions are so perverted and logic-defying that most of us are disgusted by the mere mention of his name. So, call the Daily Planet. Talk to Clark Kent. He’ll know how to contact the man-of-steel. Get the word to Superman. He must return Bizarro Michael Jackson to Bizarro World and bring back the real one.

Flying

Sat, 03 Dec 2005 22:40:44 GMT

In the event of a loss of cabin pressure, weird orange plastic cups with plastic bags attached to tubes will automatically drop from above. Passengers are told that these are oxygen masks and must be worn while breathing normally. Their actual purpose is to keep passengers from screaming and running amok about the cabin with panic during their final minutes. Death with dignity.

Band Names

Wed, 16 Nov 2005 23:32:11 GMT

• The Flat Cats
• Mobius Trip
• Squint
• Fancy Foil Dandruff
• Pants of a Lifetime
• Swindling Brothers Lying Circus
• Gyroscope Fun
• El Sol y Los Planets
• Shakewell, Renz and Repete
• The Book of Tires
• Conspicuous Consumption
• Aflatoxins For Morty
• Wind-up Crust
• Blue Spark
• Rock, Paper, Sisters
• Daywin Dataway and the Squeelers
• Fear Itself
• The Hurlers
• Go-Like-Crazy Larry and the EZ-Chain
• apathy
• Oops, That’s My Transvestite
• Cone Bread Mister Christmas
• Proof of Purpose
• Rope
• K is for Krying
• The Trouble With Tuna
• Night of the Living Doctors
• Ten Ways to Sunday
• The Hoons
• Terroristadors
• The Guns of Dorothy
• Miracle Wipe
• Mud Plum Günter
• Jozzle
• Crayfish Calvins
• The Lumpy Heathens
• Play Mixy For Me
• Another To Was One If Then
• Buzz Lord Lexicon
• Ivan The Tourniquet
• News From Atlantis
• Bubble Up Cousin
• December Endeavor
• Blame Me, I Do
• Hank’s Panic Lunch
• Even Eleven Elevate
• Ignore The Bubble
• Sez Who
• String Finger World
• The Koalas
• Sir Muffin and the Muffinettes
• Sore Losers
• Take That, Mosquito-Boy
• Inky
• Ricky Ray Islam and the Veils
• Graham Cracker Crutch
• Pool
• The Pesky Stains
• Indecision
• The Thorities
• Smile For Dope
• Never With Walter
• The Find
• Temper Temper
• Stone Holly Lamplight

Good Idea - Bad Idea

Wed, 16 Nov 2005 23:28:06 GMT

Good Idea:
Let a smile be your umbrella.
Bad Idea:
Let a smile be your trousers.

Larry Is Not An Animal

Sat, 17 Jul 2004 11:11:42 GMT

Yesterday I had to enter the answer to a personal question, which would be generally known by only me (and not to a stranger) in order to retrieve a password in the extremely likely case that my memory would fail me the next time I tried to log on to some obscure web-site. They only offered two security questions: ‘What is your favorite restaurant?’ or ‘What is the name of your pet?’ Well, don’t have a favorite restaurant. I’m too whimsical to have a favorite. My tastes change…and so do restaurants. That left my pet’s name. I don’t have a pet and never have so I had to say “Larry”. Larry is the name of the tot-sized plush chimpanzee who rides buckled up in my back seat. He was a gift from my son, Funky Steve. He’s not really a pet. He’s a companion. He likes riding in cars and never complains. I only have one life to live and I will not wind up on my deathbed wishing I had given Larry more rides. I love my plush animals. I have a few who are great company and never complain. (Non-complaining appears to be important to me.) They’re no trouble. They do exactly as they’re told and they usually smell OK.

I don’t dislike animals, but I’m not a dog person or a cat person. Fish in a bowl or tank strike me as pointless and boring. Other dispos-a-pets like gerbils or hamsters seem weird and smelly. Are there wild saber-toothed hamsters and feral giant Galapagos gerbils? Where? I’ve never seen a single one. Of course, I have a limited perspective. Birds are teeming cauldrons of germs and the idea of keeping one in a cage freaks me out. Although I suppose it’s better than letting one fly around your house. I had a friend who did that. At least with a caged bird you know where the germs are.

I can’t imagine riding a horse for pleasure or sport. I guess if I had to get somewhere and the only mode of transport was atop an animal (camel, elephant, raccoon…whatever), I’d have no choice. But as long as my options are open, I’m driving. Certainly there are those to whom a horse is a majestic steed and to others; an organic vibrator, but to me horses and other larger animals are entirely too big for the size of their brains. I don’t trust them…and they smell. All animals smell and have questionable toilet habits.

Lots of people can’t imagine that I really don’t want Sybil or Psycho or Fou-fou jumping on me, slobbering and expecting attention. They love their baby. Their dog or cat is a part of them…a part of the family. As a creationist, I strongly believe that I’m no relation to any of these other species and I’m not going to send flowers for their funerals. I have no ill intent toward animals. I wish them no harm. I just don’t want to live with them…or pay for their weddings.

I like leather, but I hate fur. Leather is like a really cool durable fabric, but fur is way too much like an animal. I see nothing wrong with eating animals. Chicken is tasty, but chickens are horrible. Beef is what’s for dinner, but cows and their kind are like aliens to me. They’re creepy.

Speaking of food, I gotta go now to get something to eat…and it won’t be at my favorite restaurant. It won’t be what I consider a restaurant at all. Hell, I’m going through the drive-up. They like Larry at the drive-up.

Where Am I? ... I'm Everywhere.

Fri, 16 Jul 2004 15:30:50 GMT

It’s been awhile since my last entry. I can’t remember what precipitated the lapse. I think it coincides with a change in my work schedule. In any case, I’m back today with random musings and pointless anecdotes. For instance:

I’m allergic to myself. I’ve never had an official medical diagnosis, but “You don’t need a weatherman to tell which way the wind blows.”, and you don’t need a doctor to tell you when you’re sick. Well, maybe some people do. Most people are compelled to seek medical help by their own perceptions, but some folks just stumble along obliviously with their seemingly healthy lives until one day a doctor pronounces them ill. Then they immediately begin the downhill spiral in to a morass of waiting. They wait for their over-booked, over-priced, under-interested doctor. They wait for approval from their diabolical HMO. They wait for the test results. They wait for their prescriptions. They wait for the inevitable. It sucks up a lot of what might be left of your now-miserable ailing existence. It’s all the waiting that can make you sick. Although there have been times when I’ve been in a waiting room to see a doctor or dentist for a particular ailment for which I’ve likely been putting off medical attention until the chronic stage, and suddenly, like a miracle, I’m cured. The toothache is gone. The sore throat and general malaise has passed. I think it must be the adrenaline from the stress of knowing some apathetic stranger will soon be messing with you in an intimately invasive, yet impersonal way. One time, during my wasted youth, a deep cut on my thumb from a bong carving mishap suddenly stopped bleeding and seemed so trivial after a lengthy wait in a hospital emergency room, that I simply got up and left. It virtually ended my desire to manufacture illegal herb paraphernalia, but with iodine and tape on the wound, I was still able to roll a decent reefer (which is, by the way, another waste of one’s life just like waiting).

Anyway, my allergies seem to be from air-borne particles. Dust will do it. Regular household dust when suspended in air from some hostile action such as dusting, vacuuming, etc… will cause me coughing, sneezing, sore throat, and nasal activity of the annoying kind. Pollens and outdoor stuff affect me too, but it’s odd to be allergic to household dust. Household dust, I’ve read, is made up mostly of human skin. We’re told that every human being on the planet is constantly shedding particles of their largest organ…their skin. I think I read somewhere that the skin of the average human is completely replaced through continuous sloughing approximately every seven years. I’m unsure if I could be considered an average human (in fact, after seeing any of these reality shows on TV, I’m offended to be considered a part of the human race at all), but I imagine that I must also shed skin to some degree. Every now and then (it might be every seven years or so), I do feel like a new person. The odd thing is that since I’m the sole occupant of my penthouse slum apartment, the household dust in my midst is mostly me.

I wonder if I spray myself with a fixative of some sort, I might retard this skin shedding and save myself the allergic reaction… not to mention the dusting and vacuuming.

Happy Happy Joy Joy

Sun, 09 May 2004 16:50:10 GMT

Today is Mother's Day and life continues to be a cabaret. Yesterday I saw "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind". I liked it, but it was predictable. My favorite part was the dancing during the memory erasing procedure. I feel like crazy-dancing (flailing and jumping and manically gyrating until exhaustion) all the time...and I stopped using drugs many years ago. There's a certain joy in just giving in to the urge to abandon all artifical decorum and to just groove to happy sounds...or maybe I'm merely a twisted individual who really doesn't grasp the gravity of these angst-ridden times. In any case, it works for me and it scares away all but the truest of friends.

I'm going to go see my mother and bring her some of those scratch 'n' sniff lottery tickets. She really likes them and we have a great time scratching them off. I do the actual work and act as the game show host..." And the next number in game two is 4. The number 4!" It's simple and inane, but we dig it.

Today's profound advice to all: Call (or go see) your mom.

Randomosity

Thu, 06 May 2004 02:48:41 GMT

Today’s favorite band name idea: Frozer

Today’s least favorite band name idea: DJ Ass featuring Booty Boy

Robot Banking In Metropolis

Wed, 05 May 2004 04:55:25 GMT

I drove to the bank today. I had to make a deposit, and at the last minute I decided to use the drive-up. I usually go inside because I like the interaction with people instead of the impersonal mechanization of the species caused by stuff like drive-up windows and IMs and Home Shopping Network and the Official English to Klingon Dictionary to name a few. Anyway, I was in a hurry so I elected to forgo my usual preference and drove right up into the second lane of the BankOne drive-up. It was a nightmare. I couldn’t see the person I was supposed to be dealing with. I couldn’t understand if the garbled, unintelligible voice was coming from the speaker in my lane or from the lane next to mine or just from my head, I was unsure what to do, but eventually surmised that I must wrest the pneumatic spaceship tube thing out of its dematerializer cradle. Then, I couldn’t figure out how to open it. I mean, it took awhile, but finally got it open…all the time hoping I wouldn’t break it. It’s possible than a broken tube thing could let air in which might upset the whole time-space continuum. In addition, I was more than a bit apprehensive about putting my hard-earned mon-ay in the pneumatic spaceship. I mean, what happens to the little air vehicle once it goes into the void? Could it get crossed up with someone’s FedEx Next Day Air package? What if it fails to materialize on the other end like socks sometimes do in the clothes dryer? I had a lot to think about. I even considered just driving away and going inside (at a different branch, of course). Eventually, however, I reluctantly put my checks into the airship, reoriented it into its molecular pulverizer, and stared blankly at my choice of actuator buttons. One said CALL. The other said SEND. I was fairly certain that I should push SEND, but strongly considered trying CALL first. I mean, CALL seemed innocuous enough. If there was a response to my CALL, I could just ask with phony confidence, “I just push SEND, don’t I?” But then I thought better of it, held my breath, closed my eyes, and pushed SEND. The dematerializer closed and God knows what else happened. It was out of my hands. I then cranked up the tunes on my CD player and acted nonchalant. After what seemed an eternity, the magic digester door opened with a little spaceship inside and I distinctly heard the word “sklelanxfroont” coming from the speaker or my head. I grabbed the tube thing and tried to remember how I opened it (or its identical evil-robot twin) the first time. Eventually, the tube was open; I pulled out my receipt, put the tube ship back in its receptacle and drove away. All in all, it was an unsatisfying experience fraught with peril and it took at least three times as long as if I had gone inside. Someday they’ll do away with all direct human contact for transactions like this. Until then, I’m going inside where I can flirt with the chicks.

Eat or be eaten.

Mon, 03 May 2004 00:36:47 GMT

I made chicken and noodles today. Actually I didn’t make the chicken. I don’t even like chickens. God made chickens. Luckily, He must have liked them enough to create them…but not so much that He didn’t make them tasty. I didn’t make the noodles either. They came from a bag and I just put them in boiling water. It was sad. I could hear them screaming.

Hey, a guy’s gotta eat.

Mobius Trip

Sun, 02 May 2004 07:02:58 GMT

Almost 10 months ago, I moved from NY state back to the Midwest, where I began, in order to keep a lucrative job with a heartless multinational conglomerate. Since I’m living here alone, I’ve been able to take the opportunity to check out the local live music scene. There’s lots of it in this little city - what with 2 universities and a couple of community colleges and other institutes of higher learning in close proximity. However, it’s odd to be, by far, the oldest person in every establishment I enter. At first, I thought of it as a drawback, but now I realize that it’s not so bad. The people at these places truly seem to like me or really feel sorry for me. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m a veteran at overcoming self-consciousness. Hell, I feel self-conscious when I’m alone. I’m inured to it. Anyway, I’ve kept up with a couple of local bands that I really like and one in particular, Public Display of Funk, (www.publicdisplayoffunk.com), draws me to almost every nearby performance. A couple of weeks ago, my friend, Roger, who is great bass player (He and I played together in a studio band called Lettuce in the ‘70s), my brother, Gary, and I went to a dumpy brewpub just 4 blocks from my crack neighborhood penthouse crib to see them play. They were, as always, a stone gas…their rhythm section is a WALL! Somewhat oblivious to my surroundings, I was grooving mightily to the sounds when I noticed that a small mixed-gender group of what I consider ‘new freaks’ (you know - retro clothes, cool woven bracelets, smelling like patchouli, etc…) had moved purposely into our midst and were smiling and nodding at us and tearing a groove rug in their own right. Their presence was nice enhancement to what was already becoming a memorable evening. Just before the festivities ended, one of this gentle group, a young man with baggy bells, leaned close to my ear with his arm around my neck and yelled so as to be audible above the din, “Man, we just love old hippies!”. As we left, we traded peace signs and even a couple of awkward hip handshakes with our kindred spirits and laughed our asses off about it into the wee hours of that sweet, sweet night.

They're too willing to please, and they slobber.

Sun, 02 May 2004 06:02:39 GMT

I saw this really cool video of a dog skateboarding. It was on toothpasteforbreakfast.com. This dog seemed really smart and an avid skater. The dog kept going back and forth across a small parking lot kicking periodically with his little feet, seemingly enjoying the breezy pleasures of the coast. It was fascinating. About three-quarters of the way through the video, however, I heard a guy’s gruff voice (probably the camera operator) saying something like “NO, GET BACK OVER HERE!” or something to the dog. Then, I realized that this dog was being coerced to perform. It was also then that I remembered that I don’t like dogs.

Telephony

Sun, 02 May 2004 05:21:19 GMT

I get phone calls from everywhere. Most of them are not for me. It seems like the people who had this phone number before me were professional deadbeats who skipped town to avoid their creditors. I’ve fielded a great deal of their calls from those infernal automated dialers and the eventual bloodless collection agent, but lately I’ve stopped trying to explain to them that I don’t even know this guy, George, or this other guy, Scott.

The problem now is just too much information. Since I moved back to the Midwest, I’ve had Caller ID, which I didn’t have in NY, and a phone that knows too much. I thought it would be cool to have, but now I’ve begun to reconsider the implications. Now I just don’t answer if I don’t recognize the name and/or number and it’s beginning to isolate me from the true randomness of life. Oh, the lost joy of anticipation when the magic bell would ring in the home of the unknowing. ‘Hark, what arcane message awaits the sounding of the chime? Who is it might seek my audience or bring glad tidings?’

“Hello?”
“Hold, please.”

On second thought, I love Caller ID.

Only 247 hiding days 'til Christmas.

Sun, 02 May 2004 04:54:47 GMT

Remember Santa Claus? Well, he remembers you…and he wants the Mattel Motorific Torture Track back. You must have been bad.

In some cultures, creativity is a disease.

Sun, 02 May 2004 01:55:07 GMT

I just finished writing and (to my taste) perfecting a new song. It’s a lame rock song wherein the singer proclaims that he’s a satellite. You know…like: “I’m just a satellite, I’m just a satellite”, etc… The gist of the verses being that this guy orbits around life never touching down, never making true contact with the world. Part of the song is a warning to those wanting more of the singer. The other is a lament. All in all, I’m happy with the song. I live vicariously through my songs. They’re all out-of-body experiences. Most of my life is an out-of-body experience. I’m going to go back to my guitar and play it again before it gets too late to blast out my poor neighbors.

Peer's lookin' at you, kid.

Sat, 01 May 2004 15:51:36 GMT

My son, Jack says it's weird to think of me as a peer. For the last few years, in many ways, I've thought of him as superior to me. I've never considered my kids as subordinates. I've learned so much from them. My daughter, Brooke, believes she is more mature than me. She may be right. In any case, I would prefer to be treated as a peer by my kids. It elevates me.

Peer is a strange word. You can peer at something. That seems kinda creepy...like peeping.

The world is expanding like a cool nightmare.

Sat, 01 May 2004 05:02:44 GMT

I just read in Traczie's journal that there's a Lemony Snicket movie coming out. I'm so unaware of the world sometimes. Thanx, T.

I'm elated, but I'm sure we'll all be disappointed. The movie in your mind is so much more vivid. I'm curious how Sunny will be portrayed. She's my favorite character.

Lemony Snicket is probably not Dave Barry, but you never know.

Sat, 01 May 2004 04:35:55 GMT

I just found out about Livejournal from my strange and wonderful kids. I read some, and then signed on. I screwed up the bio entry last night...lost every random rambling to the ozone. It's now recreated, but somehow much less satisfying. Oh innocence, you fleeting whisper.

I'm just a little uncomfortable with the extreme egocentricity that’s entailed in this endeavor, but almost everybody is the star in their own life. My life is based on a true story.

Almost everybody has a life. A few people need to get one. They could negotiate with those who have spares...like ones who lead double lives.

That's a funny concept: leading your life. I often don't feel like I'm leading my life as much as following it...like a movie or a news item. Sometimes I just watch and think, 'that guy is weird' or 'what happened there?'.