Thursday, August 02, 2001

Something occurred to me a few days ago. I have absolutely nothing left to say. I've said it all, I thought. I'm finally sick of my own voice. My own ruminations have, for once, failed to amuse me.

Yeah right. Me shut up. What a gas. I can't resist a captive audience. Besides, bitching about nothing is like screaming into a vacuum -- you make a lot of noise that nobody hears. So here I go. Brace yourself for substance:

I saw a baby staring at me in a car today and I thought: you ugly little shitface, quit staring at me, you'll be sour and cranky too, someday. (I'm a real joy case, ain't I? Maybe I've been listening to too much Radiohead.)

On a positive note, I'll be leaving this dump of a job I've been doing lately. For seven whole days I'll be commuting to lovely Arlington to collect data on museum goers. If you're down at the Newseum you might see me. I'll be the guy unobtrusively following you with a clipboard in my hand. Yes, I even have to follow you into the bathroom, though I won't be taking any notes on what number you do.

Better than that, I took the cash from my guitar sale and converted it into beer. No no, I didn't go out and buy 30 six-pacs: I bought a brewing kit. You know, "give a man a fish he'll eat for a day, teach him to fish...(etc.)" I've got some Yorkshire Ale in the bathtub right now, blowing off CO2 and getting good and stanky. I'm not sure what exactly I'm going to do with 5 gallons of beer, but I'm sure I'll find something. If I drink it all, I'll finally have an excuse to go out and outfit myself in that mumu I've always wanted. If you find me in 20 years sweating Yorkshire Ale through my mumu, wearing a pith helmet and hacking out Bob Dylan songs for quarters, remind me that I brought it all upon myself once upon a time.