Ten Pounds of Shit In A Five Pound Bag.

That's what I look and feel like today. I accused my wife of poisoning me, then sticking a lit cigarette down my throat while I slept.

The iPod just popped out Here's to You by the Silos (who are coming to Pensacola, and probably won't play it). My iPod is trying to soothe me.

Where the hell have you been?

So yeah, I haven't updated this spot (or really, many of the other blogs I contribute to) since before Halloween. It doesn't mean that nothing's been going on with me, and the world has certainly turned plenty since my last post:

Anna Nicole Smith follows her son in death. Someone please start searching Howard K. Stern's bookshelf for books on everything from Marilyn Monroe & JFK to Jim Jones and the Jonestown Massacre. Stern may want to keep that law degree handy, too. Added bonus: "I'm Anna's baby-daddy" has become MySpace for any penis over 30, I guess. I can't believe Maury Povich hasn't sold both his kidneys and one of Connie Chung's for the exclusive rights to the DNA tests on all the possible candidates.

Bizarre Love Triangle or Space Oddity, take your pick. Wow. I had a feeling NASA was a high-stress work environment, what with spending billions to go into outer space once every two years, so you can't fault at least one astronaut for going off their rocker, right? I imagine the meat in this DCT (Dude/Crazy/Tramp) sandwich is signing up for every flight off-world he can get in the next six months. He's ready to strap on a Buck Rogers jet-pack and hold his breath til he gets to the International Space Station.

It's not a stereotype if it's true. Once I got past the "what the fuck is Scarlett Johansson doing presenting the last Grammy?" stuff, I was able to give my undivided attention to her ridiculous, porn-star attempts to point out to the last two people on earth that she does indeed have breasts. She actually bent over to speak into a microphone which was clearly above her mouth. I did like Don Henley's answer when ol' Hooters asked him if he had any advice for her upcoming CD recording: "No." Assuming he could always be this succinct, why is Hotel California four days long?

Have I soured on the Dixie Chicks after their Grammy triumph? I wasn't a big fan of Natalie Maines' meandering acceptance speeches; I thought she was a little heavy on the nyah-nyah's and a little light on the appreciation. But then again, they did produce a solid CD (which I didn't do last year) and they did get death threats (which, again, I didn't). I'll stay on their side, if for no other reason than the other side of the argument is unreasoned at best and lunatic half-truth at worst.

I'm the devil. I love metal. Now that Prince has shown that he's got the Foo Fighters covered, Dave Grohl can leave his homo-sapien costume in storage and strut around as his true demonic self. Seriously, is there anyone you know who doesn't at least like Dave Grohl? I blame Satan.



And that's just a taste of what's been going around while the Internets awaited my return. Where the hell have I been?

Watching my peeps the Deadly Fists of Kung Fu play to a crowd larger than the last 20 they'd played for.

Finally buying a goddamn iPod, and then realizing (to my horror) that I really enjoy having it. To the point where I almost treat it like a child. Oh, is your little battery running out? Oh, do you need more music? How about a nice video?

Watching my queen begin full-0n cosmetology school, and kicking ass.

Waiting for February 1oth, so I could wish Allen Holt a happy birthday. For those of you who don't know him, The Holt is a devoted and accomplished husband and father of two, who also happens to be the best writer I know personally. Check his shit out. (His wife's no slouch either.)

Hopefully, I'll be back soon, so I don't have to fill a post with such random crap in the weeks ahead.