It’s been a crazy couple of months here. I have swiftly oscillated between a complete whirlwind of activity and crashing into a complete coma of unconsciousness. And while I have finally finished recording on my new production project (news coming soon!) and I’m almost finished writing my next album (can’t come soon enough!), I have some bats fluttering around in my belfry that I desperately need to let out. They’re blocking the exits. So please, dear reader, forgive the random collection of thoughts and commiserations, and hopefully you’ll enjoy these particular creatures without them taking roost in your attic.
Whoever thought of remote car starters has clearly never read a Stephen King novel.
I was deeply disappointed by The Ides Of March—with the exception of Philip Seymour Hoffman, who has yet to really disappoint me in anything.
That divet on your upper lip just below your nose is called the filtrum. And now that my 2-year-old daughter knows what it’s called, the rest of us have no excuse not to know as well.
I am very upset that House is ending. I need at least one good source of intelligent misanthropy in my life in addition to my actual life.
Breaking Bad is awesome. It’s so awesome that I might survive the end of House.
Someday soon, an entire generation of humans will turn into zombies simply because they don’t have an app on their phone telling them that they’re dead. Also someday soon, they’ll have to do a remake of The Sixth Sense so that at least one of the dead people needs the new Haley Joel Osment to help them get bars on their ghost iPhones. He reminds them to just move their hand off of the antenna, after which they enter the light and find eternal mobile access.
I’m a little afraid to say it out loud yet, but . . . I’m just about done with PCs.
Something has happened to my mind recently, and I am suddenly quite incapable of baking. I can cook, but I can’t bake. I think it’s the waiting. I’m terrible at waiting. I just don’t have time for it.
“Ship and boat diverged; the cold, damp night breeze blew between; a screaming gull flew overhead; the two hulls wildly rolled; we gave three heavy-hearted cheers, and blindly plunged like fate into the lone Atlantic.” —Herman Melville, Moby-Dick; or, The Whale
There is a CRAZY amount of similarity between the construction of pop songs and children’s books.
We need another sport that pits one human against another. All we have are boxing (and related sports), wrestling, tennis, and ping pong (which arguably isn’t a sport, though there are genuine athletes who play it at that level). I can’t think of any others. I just like to see individuals triumph. It fits my whole solo artist thing.
Facebook is the new Colosseum. Without the blood. Well, sometimes without the blood. But always with the same lust for blood.
By the time I get everything I need up and organized in the “cloud,” it will be completely replaced by the next thing—the “nebula.” At the exact same time, my entire wardrobe will also become obsolete, replaced by tight black pants matched with a variety of brightly colored long-sleeve shirts that don’t match my skin tone at all. But at least I’ll have my own spaceship!
I finally have 500 unread messages in my e-mail account! A big and well-deserved thank you to all of the e-mail newsletters that I don’t have time to read, to the targeted sales emails that I don’t have time to take advantage of, and especially to Groupon . . . I couldn’t have done it without each and every one of you.
I need a haircut.
Love is the answer. And soup. Love and soup are the answers.