SAND EVERY FUCKING PLACE

i caught a whiff of tidiness in the air tonight and attacked my untidy room with the prejudice reserved for seasoned field marines. i discovered there's sand every fucking place in here as if, bit by bit, the insidious sahara were creeping its dusty fingers towards my bed...

which is also filled with sand.

i gnash my teeth with disbelief but, alas, there's no use fighting the inevitable heat-death of the universe.... lousy goddamn entropy.

so a funny thing happened to me yesterday: i was walking home from work, minding my own pretty business, not hurting anyone, whistling a pleasant tune whilst tiptoeing down the sunny lane, and some dumb-fuck woman drove her mercedes into a man driving a motorcycle in the opposite direction.

apparently she really, really wanted that parking space.

so there i stood, the only witness to the scene unfolding before me like the gentleman on the motorcycle tumbling down the pavement in a miraculous recreation of pollock's White Light (the one from Coleman's Free Jazz... thank you Ken Burns!)

(PS. NYC by Interpol is a really great fucking song)

where was i? yes, the leaky gentleman on the busted motorcycle, yes...

so i, of course, morph from being a witness to the scene to being The Eyewitness to the Scene as far as the Cambridge police (te he... "police") were concerned, and spent the better part of my dwindling late-afternoon-early-evening acting as the only one with a fucking clue. i refuse to believe that these people can live/drive in cambridge/boston and not know how to handle themselves in a traffic crisis... i had to call the towtruck in for chrissake.

oy.

so anyway, i've decided to think of my bedroom as one tiny beach, and my bed is the sailboat that will take me away to dream island... thankfully this boat comes equipped with wireless internet. did i say 'internet porn?' i meant NPR.org...

sweet dreams, kids.