Just the way they want it.

Shhh baby, nobody be dying anywhere... Spend, spend, spend (and borrow if you have to).

It's not what you do when try to justify a war. The biggest burden in my life right now is the fact that my country doesn't seem to mind the attitude of ho-hum-well-it-didn't-pan-out-the-way-we-initially-justified-it-but-American-people-are-so-apathetic-if-not-stupid-that-we-can-just-stand-at-our-pulpit-and-pretty-much-say-anything-and-we'll-pay-some-poll-a-lot-of-$$$-and-have-them-generate-some-numbers-that-show-a-53%-approval-never-mind-the-plus/minus-4%-error. In my book, if your going to goto war, the one thing that should remain consistent is the basis for it. Bush's flippant approach to the war's rationale is deplorable and diplomatically embarrassing. Plus, (as I think it stands today) if we really went to war for bad intentions -- aren't there a lot of other leaders/people out there with bad intentions? Of course, we've got a President "who sees the world the way it is." Well, I guess he told us.

Most days I am screwed; today I am forked. Forked and screwed, I am.

Someone help me. I need creative juice: liquid, pill, or capsule.

It's amusing to me that on the first few days of warm weather in northern climates (say Seattle or Boston), people find it necessary to crank the air-conditioning down to 65 or so degrees. God-forbid an office temperature of 74 degrees, especially on the heels of winter. What also sucks is all of this sunshine. Fortunately, I work in a closet, so I can't complain about monitor glare or anything like that. Nope, the corporate world's got me in basement-(coffin?)-like conditions: 65, dark, cold, and damp. Nothing that a little Percocet wouldn't cure. Maybe Seattle's Best Coffee can grind a little of that into their roast. I'd buy it. Percocet, hmm, let see, we'll take the word perk and we'll combine it with the word copacetic, yep, see, it works: PERkCOpaCETic. Copacetic perks. Christ, somebody get me a job in marketing.

Step 1) Browse to the Federal Election Commission of the United States of America.

Step 2) Start your stopwatch (kind of a funny phrase).

Step 3) Try and find the voter registration form.

Step 4) Once you've found it, stop your stopwatch and record the elapsed time.

Democracy later!

Count the number of cars behind you (using your rear-view mirror) that go through the intersection that you just went through on the slightly unsafe side of yellow:

1 = "I've had a bad day and I want to get home and drink a beer."
2 = "My wife is having a baby."
3 = "My Mercedes/BMW/SUV-driving ass owns the world, now get the fuck out of my way."
4 = "Dude, give me another hit."

Note, behind-my-ass mirror is much easier to pronounce than rear-view. Can we change it?

Survey says...

...not available due to recount.

"Sex is like bread, if you butter the corners, you can get away with not buttering the middle." -- tqb circa 2002

I hate words that represent things that we don't have firmly conceptually grasped. In particular, creativity and art are big offenders. I mean, I get it, we gotta have the word art, but other than when it's attached to Garfunkel, I've got no use for it... I'd like to do something more creative for my career. What the fuck does that mean? What does it buy me? Where does it take me? What license do I own to even make a statement like that? Especially, in deference to neighbors, peers, thinkers, and others who are already trekking down creative paths.

Oh baby you're like broken chips at the bottom of the bag, some people really-really like you and others just throw you away. :-)

In sickness and in health; with or without limbs...

In other thoughts: if you want to see how fast dreams can turn into delusions, just start a blog. It's a great lesson in the apathy of the public. You can say anything or nothing and few or less will care. A year ago, the weight of self-consciousness crushed me on every post -- especially when addressing drug use or psychological flaws. Now, I just let everything fly; and, unless I've written something with an unknown-to-me grammar error (or a sentence with really crappy punctuation [like this one] -- which is really just laziness and an unwillingness to open a style handbook) -- I fret none (except for the potential of getting stalked [or stocked -- blogger-in-the-pillory, baby]).

Artist: Vernon Reid
Song: Uptown Drifter (5.02 MB)
Album: Mistaken Identity
Year: 1996

God hey, SOTW hasn't been updated in months. Ouch. I'm going to leave you with Vernon Reid's virtual bong hit as you head out to do weekend things. I can't believe how overlooked "Mistaken Identity" is. If I was Vernon, I'd just re-release in 10 years and make a billion dollars. By then, the rest of the world's aesthetic abilities will have caught up to Vernon's (circa '87)...

I'd be a bit remiss without mentioning Pat Tillman: a soldier's spot is a tough place to reside. There's so much honorable merit in how he lived his life -- completely steadfast in playing down special privilege. I wish we had more of that. I think America's neo-philosophical take on ownership is noxiously out-of-control. $ don't buy you love -- and $ don't buy you privilege either, asshole. What's more certain is that the people most deserving of privilege won't ask for it and will rarely take it. RIP PT.

Instead of messing with the underbrush, I think it's time to just yank out the Bush completely (and America will be better for it).

Nothing is more fleeting than recognition...

Every now and then a Kente-Cloth-of-a-mushroom-cap grows on the crusted and insipid precipitate of a cow defecation of the world's collective consciousness. Thing is, the pot of gold despises effort and deliberation (although, it's hard to imagine edification sans conviction). Fuck. Fuck, I don't know -- my friend says I sound uneducated when I use the word fuck. I don't know, some people build buildings and other people tear them down. The rest of us (im)passively occupy them, neither hot nor cold, waiting and not waiting, carefully minding the bypass for revolutions that can never be consciously joined, but are effortlessly skirted...

You all can sleep peacefully while I daydream about valium...

P(roximity)
I(s)
E(verything)

The strangest and most improbable things have arisen from the induction of proximity: hot chicks go out with ugly dudes, symbiosis forms between entities, dislikes turn into likes. I think this is why death is detestable -- it ruins our control of proximity. Dig?

Google: "proximity is everything."

While waiting for life that sucks to die, why not listen to my favorite unsigned bands: TQ's Garage Band Playlist.