Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Take me down to Paradise City
Where the grass is green and the girls are pretty

I was sitting here reflecting upon my life and listening to Guns and Roses. Guns and Roses had their contemplative moments. Granted, they were few. And brief.

We're talking an aggregate 5/12 of a song per album, tops. A bridge here, a chorus there... maybe a pensive A minor or two. I don't get the impression that Slash spent a lot of time eating veggie burritos and aligning his chakras.

(Whoa oh oh oh, sweet child of mine)

But then again, who does?

There are people who have houses in the Yellowstone Club that pay someone thousands of dollars to coordinate the Feng Shui in their house.

What the fuck?

((The Yellowstone Club is the only private ski, and golf, resort. It's like Augusta, except it's an entire ski mountain with lifts and everything, but private. Gated. Bill Gates has a house there. From what I hear, he has a really long concrete driveway that is heated with electricity. When he leaves Seattle in his private plane, he gets on his geekberry, turns on the juice and the driveway melts the snow off the driveway.

Because if you're Bill Gates, why not?

I bet the driveway is only the tip of the iceberg. There are probably cameras all over the house that he can watch in realtime on his geekberry.

HD, too.))

Sooo... to reel this back in, I was thinking about what I write here, and the job that I have (job?!) and the job that I had (Your Honor, she ate my Pez.) and the people that read this (hi mom, hi former co-workers, hi clients, hi people in Bozeman who see me in the coffee shop or wherever and say hey dude, hi howard stern board people) ...

It affects what I write like an instant feedback loop, which is strange, and also compelling.

If I were scribbling in a teenage diary that I kept under my bed, it wouldn't be nearly as fun. I could write a book (which I would like to someday), but nobody would ever read it. You have to buy a book. This is free. A little diversion, like reading a good magazine article whilst taking a dump.

Paulette, I am sorry about the blurry pictures. I need a better camera.

Quagmire, I don't have hemophilia. Everything is alright. I just need to stop wiping out on my board at 35 miles per hour on hard snow. That's what gives you an elbow tit, a bruise, and a limp wrist. OK, the wrist was limp already.


You're bound to lose control
When the rubber band man
Starts to jam

I had a dream last night in which I was suing a friend in small claims court for having eaten the "R," "S," and "T" in my alphebetical Pez collection.

In other news, I badly sprained my wrist snowboarding and Stanette gave me one of her Vicodin before bed.

I wonder if the two are related.

(2008 has not been kind to the left side of my body. Sprained left wrist, elbow injury which created a swollen bursa sac that I have named my "elbow tit," and a strange bruise across the left side of my body.)