Wednesday, September 13, 2006

It's how you look and how you feel
(Why do I?)
You must have a heart of steel
(Why do I?)
Why do I keep fuckin' up?

Hello, friends.

Howdy doodle-do, neigbor?

I gotta be straight with you.

I cannot fucking wait for the snow to fly.

No, indeed, I cannot.

Hey, by the way...

Are you looking for a nymphomaniac narcoleptic? She has a beautiful exposition on French culture up right now.

She is really in touch with her inner Bukowski.

Me, too.

I have another one for you.


Meet Veronica.

She lives somewhere in the Greater New York area, and she is a ghostwriter by trade.

Basically, she is the Winston Wolf of the literary world.

She solves problems.

Check it, though.

These ladies are entertaining.

Four out of Five Dudes Abide...

And, remember,

Well he's pouncing like a proud, black panther
Well, you can say I, I told you so

OK. Hump day.

I had a bad stretch today.

I woke up, showered, got dressed, and was going about my business- ham, egg and cheese bagel, a latte, morning paper, etc., etc.- and about 10 a.m., I looked down and noticed my fly was down.

Later, I was out and about, and I went to the bathroom. 20 minutes later, I looked down and noticed my fly was down.

I went to the gym, worked out, showered, and then I had to get India and take her to pick up her car, whcih was being fixed. She started laughing and informed me my fly was down... again.

This is not an exaggeration.

I left my fly down three separate times today for extended periods.

I was enjoying a continuous remembering-to-zip-my-fly streak of about a year.

Then, boom. Three times in one day.

Oddly, this has happened in the past.

I am not a chronic barn-door-open guy or anything.

It's just that every few years, there will be a week where I catch myself with my fly down 4 times.

But I have never started out with a 3-in-one day binge before.

I am expecting that Friday, I will walk out of the gym locker room with no pants on or something, a la Costanza at the party coming out of the bathroom shirtless.

It's a slippery slope from there to declaring the Summer of Joe and sitting in a track suit eating a block of cheese the size of a car battery.