Speaking of Idiots

I would call the administrators of the kids' school Nazis, but the Nazis were organized.

I'll have to console myself with calling them petty little fascists.

Busy, Busy, Busy

Publisher's needed a rewrite -- so that's consuming most of the day. Plus work, plus having to deal with the fact that the 28% of the country that is batshit insane and will just not SHUT UP. Been test driving anti-anxiety medication so that the seams don't actually start to unravel, and giving up on carbs is helping.

10 more chapters to rewrite....

Yow

The earache exploded sometime in the night, and the S/O tells me I woke him up several times, althought I can't quite recall. I get up this morning and half my face was puffy, my ear was swollen shut, I couldn't close my jaw all the way from the swelling, and my submandibular lymphnodes felt like freshly shelled walnuts.

Fast forward through 4.5 hours sitting in a rural emergency room, replete with two "heart attacks" -- one of the "I'm coming, Elizabeth" variety, and another where a couple just looked heartbreakingly frightened, and a woman wearing shoes that were three sizes too big -- it's the little things you notice.

Amazing what a corticosteriod shot and some horse pills will do. It's a few hours later, and I'm feeling almost human again. So I salute you, rural health professionals.

Of course this was a day where I did no work at all, the paying kind or the other kind. It's kind of thrown a spanner into my works. Sigh. I guess I'll just try to make it up tomorrow. I told the S/O I was going to find Karma and kick its ass, to which he replied, "If you're looking for Karma, I think it's busy kicking your ass."

So, note to self: must stop delighting in misfortune of others, even when they really, really, reallly deserve it and make it nearly impossible not to overdose on delicious shaudenfreude. I'm looking at you, Mark Sanford. I'll write a thousand times "I Will Not Think Evil Thoughts" on my imaginary blackboard. I'll try to remember to water the plants before they get crispy.

So, Karma, truce?

Nothing Ever Quiet on the Western Front

The earache is better -- although whether that's due to the medicated drops, laying down with an icebag wrapped to my head ala Marley's ghost, or walking around with with a peeled garlic clove shoved my ear like a hillbilly hearing aid, I am uncertain.

At least it doesn't quite feel like I have a steak knife shoved in the side of my skull any more. Not quite.

But while I was laying down with the icebag desperately trying biofeedback, my mom called and left a voicemail, child #3 called three times, child #1 called three times, the S/O called four times, and the strange old woman who always calls asking, "Is Mary there?" called twice. Turns out that the S/O and child #1 were both calling to tell me to get hold of child #3, who is hysterical about something, but not hysterical enough to relate the cause to them and can only speak to me. Oh, and child #1 called once more to relate that my mother wanted to know why she couldn't get a hold of me.

Child #3 is now not answering the phone, and I am too old to understand how to use the newfangled text messaging. Sigh.

Just Like That Episode of Night Gallery

It's 6:30 in the morning, I have an incredible earache and a crabby four-year old who is royally pissed because I broke his pop-tart in half to facilitate consumption, we're in the middle of heatwave in southern Louisiana that has produced the hottest temperatures ever recorded here, and I've had no sleep because of said incredible earache. We're in the lobby of the rehab hospital to have child # 5's hearing checked because some meddling family members insisted on knowing why child #5 had some mild pronunciation problems RIGHT NOW instead of just waiting until the end of the summer so he could be evaluated at school as the S/O and I had agreed to previously.

This situation has done nothing for my sunny disposition. OK, I have no sunny disposition, so you can imagine what it has done for my stormy disposition.

The woman who I shall refer to "helpful" receptionist checks us in, apologizes for the fact that the temperature in the lobby is roughly that of a meat locker, and "helpfully" says, "Let me at least turn on the TV for you."

This is the part of the story were it all goes horribly, horribly wrong. The TV warms up and what should we be treated to but Fox News. I think it's the execrable Fox and Friends, but I refuse to look straight at the TV, because looking straight at Fox and Friends reportedly has the same affect as staring into the visage of Chthulu. That is, unless you've fortified yourself with some kind of magic amulet, you'll soon go screamingly insane.

"Tell her to change the channel," I hiss to the S/O. I avert my eyes as he returns to the enclosed glass receptionist's enclave. He returns and says, "Sorry, you're out of luck, she says the channel changer is broken." "Tell her to TURN IT OFF THEN." "Helpful" receptionist is now peering out at me with a look that says, "Who is this unreasonable woman?" Well, lady, you are now milliseconds away from finding out that your idea if unreasonable is woefully inadequate.

The S/O has a faint look of amusement on his face as he pulls me to a part of the meat locker that is as far away from the TV as possible. It's like that moment just before the drunk breaks the beer bottle across the bar: we are literally on the cusp of the brandishing-a-waiting-room-chair- and-taking-hostages part of the morning festivities.

You see, there are certain things I cannot countenance: torturing puppies, burning orphanages, watching Fox News. You can't even inadvertently stumble across Fox News on the home TV because I've removed it from the channel list. If I could pay DirecTV to not even add it to our package, I would gladly do so.

Luckily, showing up at some godawful hour of the morning means a short waiting time, and before the situation can get out of hand, a cheerful assistant --oh, and they're all cheerful here -- whisks us away to sign paperwork.

Long story short, the crisis was averted, and we found out that child #5 is normal and healthy, and that the fact of the matter is that four-year-olds don't usually HAVE THE DICTION OF LORD FLUFFINGTON-CRANBERRY OF CHAPPINGTON-ON-THE-GREEN, and may occasionally have some pronunciation difficulties. Because, you know, that had never entered my mind.

Still, I am reminded of that old "Night Gallery" episode with John Astin, where he realizes he can't escape the radio station he finds himself in for reasons that eventually become obvious. With my luck, Hell is a place where Fox News runs on a continuous loop.

You Can't Escape

I'm working this morning, minding my own business, when I get a phone call from California. It's child number two. He can get half a day off if he writes a short essay. So he's in the bathroom on his cell phone asking for my assistance.

It's either very gratifying or very depressing that even though your child may be a lance corporal in the Marine Corps and is two time zones away, he still needs your help with his homework.

Tales from the DVR

Been trying to keep the DVR hovering around the 50% mark, which is like 60-some hours.

We finally watched the last episodes of "Pushing Daisies" -- sigh. They did their best to tie it all up in the finale, so it was a bit of breathless rush. So a big thank you from your small but eternally devoted legion of fans. A part of our hearts will always reside in Couer de Couer. And ABC sucks. Also.

But on the other hand, ABC did unexpectedly renew "Castle." So now I have this weird love/hate relationship with ABC. If you don't love Nathan Fillion, there is a dried-up little cinder where your soul should be.

The first two series of BBC's "Primeval" were quite good. The third, not so much. The creatures are great, but I fear there is more hole than plot at this point. Take it as a bad sign when the main chracter is unceremoniously dispatched in the third episode -- and not for any good reason, but because he realized the show was now being written by monkeys and no longer wanted his good name associated with it. Despite the charms of Jason Flemyng, it's a chore at this point. I'm only hanging on to see the evil characters get their eventual comeuppance, hopefully in a spectactularly gruesome fashion.

Been keeping up with "The Closer," "Saving Grace" and "Burn Notice," but as yet untouched: the whole season of "Reaper," the whole season of "Medium," the whole season of "Ashes to Ashes" from BBC America, and a replay of "Invasion," because even though I've seen it, you can never have enough William Fichtner. Plus on Sundays Chiller is playing obscure UK supernatural series -- currently "Strange" and "Spine Chillers" -- which I am of course compelled to watch. Hi, Alexie Sayle!

Oh, and Doctor Who!!! The Christmas episode is on the DVR, and next month they start rolling out the last five specials with David Tennent. And I will be crushed when David Tennent goes, absolutely crushed. Yeah, I know I thought the same thing when Christopher Eccleston left, but this time I REALLY MEAN IT.

Coming soon, the return of "Leverage" and "Eureka." It hardly seems sporting that new seasons are now rolled out continually like chocolates on Lucy and Ethel's conveyor belt. Why, you'd think I had nothing better to do.

Mush, You Huskies

So, I've been working. No, actually working. Not the kind of work you get paid for, the other, important kind.

I've decided to work on three projects, because working on one would just be, well, pedestrian. I'm also laboring under the theory that I'm at my most productive when I have more to accomplish than I can possibly accomplish.

A) A new novel -- a departure for me, because there are no monsters, decapitations, or sundry other unpleasant things. It's -- gasp -- rather mainstream, even chick-lit-y. So we'll see how long that runs along until I feel compelled to kill someone -- in the literary sense, of course.

B) A book of short stories. I've wanted to do it for a while, and even I only self-publish a few copies, I'd like to at least have them all rounded up and neatly bound instead of floating around on scraps of paper. Still waiting to hear on the latest submission of a SS for the anthology, but their reading period isn't closed yet, so it may be a bit.

C) A rewrite of the vampire novel. Because vampires are cool again - finally. I've been holding off doing anything with it, mostly because it is huge and unwieldy -- and I'm talking Stephen-King-huge-and-unwieldy. I figure at least a third of it needs to be just cut outright. And going back over it, it is a bit.....overwrought. But first novels often are.

So there we go, plenty to work on, and a variety, like a box of chocolates, but the Monty Python kind. Watch out for the steel springs and the crunchy frog.

And We Shall Never Speak of Them Again

I really, really, really hate the Detroit Redwings. That is all.

Don't Try This At Home

Memo to self. Don't quit caffiene cold turkey. Just...don't. I have spent the last two days with a vise on my skull, and gremlins tapdancing on my corpus collosum. It was just that I was drinking way to much Coke Zero, an embarassing amount, so much that I had to hide the cans like an aging actress with a fake fireplace full of vodka bottles. So I ran out of it one morning, and decided I'd quit just like that.

Long story short, see me bleary-eyed and cursing, driving recklessly to the Piggly Wiggly parking lot with a handful of all the change I could find.

Coke Zero has got to have some ingredient they don't list on the label. Some mind control juice from a rare Amazonian flower or something. I swear, someday the signal will be sent out and all the Coke Zero heads will come staggering out and begin marching......somewhere. I'll be the one with the Peter Forsberg Jersey on.

Good Grief

I'm a very, very bad girl. I've totally not done anything I promised myself I would, and my DVR is overflowing. In my defense, the 17-year-old is now a high school graduate and enrolled in college as an art major. At least for now -- every other day she has a panic attack regarding her choice. Ah, for the days when contemplating your college major was the most pressing thing on the horizon.

And with everyone out of school, now comes the complicated task -- complete with flowcharts and index card -- or making sure everyone gets too and from baseball, swimming lessons, orientation, camp, and sundry other activities and obligations with the proper wardrobe, accessories, and snack foods. And the sunscreen, don't forget the sunscreen.

I haven't written, which is what pains me most. Although I have submitted a short story for an anthology, so fingers crossed there. And while I may be tempting the gods to send a lightning bolt my way, the agent has a major mystery publisher contemplating the mystery series. So I'm trying to remain obliquely positive, like watching a close game out of the corner of your eye, while waiting for the big Monty Python foot to come down and squash my flowers. I've seen Lucy pull that football away. You can't fool me.

So here we go again, like a random New Year's Day --time to start the resolutions. I'll start by writing here again first, as I already spend most of my waking time online. And then.... Well, then we'll see how that goes.

From the Department of Irreparable Damage

The 8-year-old comes from school today and says, "We were playing zombies on the playground and I bit three kids. So only Patrick is left."

On the upside, I don't think he LITERALLY bit them....

Why You Should Read Ta-Nehisi Coates

Since the election ended and I could quit obsessing about the real world to the degree to which I had obsessed about it before, I cut down my blog consumption markedly. There are only a few I still keep up with on a daily basis. Here's one reason why I check in with Ta-Nehisi most days.

Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch

The current GOP is like a bottomless clown car. Just when you think, "There can't possibley be any more clowns in there!" another one stumbles out of the door.

There have in the past been Republicans that I admired, who I thought were decent people, who had convictions that, while I didn't agree with them, were at least in some way defensible or well-reasoned. Hell, the S/O is Republican, and I haven't killed him -- yet. Of course, it helps that he's cute.

But, seriously, GOP, this is tiresome. While I may not agree with everything the current administration is doing, they are smart, capable and doing their damnedest to pull us out of the tailspin. We tried your way, and it didn't work. So now we try another way and pray that it does. You say "government is the problem" but the truth is "Republican government is the problem." We gave you the keys to the bus, and you promptly got drunk, set fire to the bus, and drove it off a cliff into a ravine filled with radioactive zombies. We're just trying to claw our way back out before they eat what's left of our brains.

So, GOP, come up with some new ideas -- and not the same old ideas repackaged in a shiny "off-the-hook" wrapper -- but until you do, STFU and take your big bucket of fail with you.

Haps in the Whedonverse

I watched the first half of Dollhouse with the little voice in my head repeating the mantra "Please don't suck, please don't suck, please don't suck." The first half was dicey -- not horrible, but being a big uber-nerd Buffy-phile can open you up to a world of dissapointment. The second half picked up, and there was a line in there, you know the feeling if you're a writer, where you go, "Damn, I wish I had written that." The second half was good, not Angel season five good -- and sorry, for me, Angel season five is the apex of TV -- and not "Graduation Day" or "The Body" good, but good nonetheless. So here's to high hopes that when I can get close to the DVR the series builds on that. Don't break my heart, Whedon.

And becasue TNT reruns Angel at 6:00 in morning, I happened to catch a few episodes this week. "A Hole in the World" still stands out to me as one of my favorite episodes of TV ever, and "Underneath" was good too. Sigh. If there was a cable network that only contained the compiled works of Joss Whedon, Tim Minear, Bryan Fuller, Russell T. Davies and the tragically lone season of Now and Again, I would never get up from in the front of the TV again.

Time, She Does Fly

Yikes - so much for my internal mental promise to write everyday. Of course, said promise might be easier to keep if everyone who shares my house wasn't earnestly trying to liquify my brain. And too much work -- not the good kind that is fulfilling and leads somewhere, but the other kind, the one that pays for the macaroni and cheese and the cap & gown fees and the college applications and the kitty litter. Which of those is most important? Ask Spike - although to the list including kitty litter he would add, "And unlimited cream cheese, and not the stupid bars, but the fancy whipped stuff."

What else? I managed to read a short story. Not write one, mind you, but read one. In the bathtub, in between the cat opening the door -- no doubt looking for cream cheese -- and the 3-year-old following the cat in, asking why I didn't have more toys in the bathtub. You know what I miss? (other than being able to take a 10 minute bath unaccosted) I miss short stories. Why when I was a kid you could go down to Duckwalls and buy a paperback copy of Year's Best Horror Stories off the spinning rack by the cash register for a buck. It was literally like $1.65. Man, I loved those things. The lack of speculative fiction anthologies readily available in any local shop is a sure sign of the decline of civilization.

I am working on a story. I even have the beginning and ending all typed up, but the middle still resides inside my head. I know it all, I even review and revise while I'm chauffering or moving laundry from the washer to the dryer or trying to scrub the spilled maraschino cherry juice off the shelves of the fridge. I just can't seem to sit down in the quiet and finish it off. Maybe becasue there is no quiet, or if there is, it's the dark and lonely hours of the night when I'm too tired or still working to buy that cream cheese. I've been trying to convince myself that I really don't need the 3.25 hours of sleep I'm currently getting a day, but the body rebels.

Anyway, that's my goal for this month, small and timid as it may be, finish that story. We'll see.

Shameless Plug for a Good Cause

If you liked Beck's "Leopard-Skin Pillbox Hat" from the Oscar telecast, the album it's on is available as of February 24 from Amazon and proceeds go to War Child, a charity that assists children in war-torn areas. The tracks featured are from legendary artists choosing new artists to cover their songs.

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B001PCNZDQ?ie=UTF8&tag=thsmofasfl-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B001PCNZDQ

Track Listings
1. Beck (Bob Dylan - "Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat")
2. The Kooks (The Kinks - "Victoria")
3. The Hold Steady (Bruce Springsteen - "Atlantic City")
4. Hot Chip (Joy Division - "Transmission")
5. Lily Allen feat. Mick Jones (The Clash - "Straight To Hell")
6. Yeah Yeah Yeahs (The Ramones - "Sheena Is A Punk Rocker")
7. Franz Ferdinand (Blondie - "Call Me")
8. Duffy (Paul McCartney - "Live And Let Die")
9. Estelle (Stevie Wonder - "Superstition")
10. Rufus Wainwright (Brian Wilson -" Wonderful & Song For Children")
11. Scissor Sisters (Roxy Music - "Do The Strand")
12. Peaches (Iggy Pop - "Search And Destroy")
13. Adam Cohen (Leonard Cohen - "Take This Waltz")
14. Elbow (U2 - "Running To Stand Still")
15. The Like (Elvis Costello - "You Belong To Me")
16. TV On The Radio (David Bowie - "Heroes")

Random Oscar Thoughts

In deference to the recession, first let me say the Oscar noshes this year were toned down: deli sandwiches, generic chips, deviled eggs. But I did bake a nifty cake: triple chocolate chunk 4-layer torte with hazelnut/chocolate filling and faux buttercream. Cooking tip I just invented: to make faux buttercream take a container of prepared milk chocolate frosting, whip up two cups of whipping cream with nothing added, and fold together. Tastes remarkabely like German buttercream without the agony of actually making German buttercream.

As for the show, it was the best-produced Oscars I can remember. It was funny, with very few clinkers, moved along well, and there were no cringeworthy moments. This made up somewhat for the lackluster slate of nominees.

Random impressions in no particular order:

The opening bit was swell, Hugh Jackman was hilarious, Anne Hathaway was charming.

I liked the format where they had five winners highlight the nominees. And let me say I hope I age as well as Eva Marie Saint, Goldie Hawn or Sophia Loren. Seriously, don't fuck with Sophia Loren, she looks like she will not be amused with your bullshit and will summarily kick your ass. Also let me say that whatever Javiar Bardem is made of, they should bottle it and sell it on every street corner.

Ben Stiller was funny, but not as funny as the bit with James Franco and Seth Rogan. And even Franco and Rogan were upstaged by cinematographer Janusz Kaminski. Will he be in Pineapple Express 2? Of course now I have to convince the kids it's NOT funny to staple things to your face.

Kate Winslett finally won an Oscar, blah, blah, blah. At least it wasn't Meryl Streep. If Meryl Streep had won, I think I would have died a little inside. Melissa Leo, you were robbed.

Was Philip Seymore Hoffman planning on knocking over a gas station later in the evening? Did he have a contagious scalp condition? WTF?

It was worth it for "La Maison en Petite Cubes" to win best animated short film just to hear the winner end his acceptance speech with "Domo Origato, Mr. Roboto." Yes, I am 12.

Personal disappointment of the night: the fact that In Bruges did not win best original screenplay. That was a brilliant, brilliant film and a kick-ass screenplay. I would say that was the best film I saw in 2008.

Dear Academy: putting whoever it was from Mamma Mia and whoever it was from High School Musical in a musical production number will not make the kids think you are cool. Stop it.

Did Philip Seymore Hoffman do Reese Witherspoon's hair?

Really, Sean Penn? I would have picked Best Actor in this order: Mickey Rourke, Frank Langella, Richard Jenkins, Brad Pitt, anybody but Sean Penn, Sean Penn. I have the same problem with Sean Penn that I have with Jack Nicholson and Tom Cruise. I never see any of them as a character, just as themselves. And when I see any of them I get a sharp shooting pain in my head. Therefore I can never watch a movie that features Sean Penn, Jack Nicholson or Tom Cruise. I take that back. "Fast Times at Ridgemont High." But that's it. If I saw a movie starring Sean Penn, Jack Nicholson and Tom Cruise, I would spontaneously combust.

Why is the TCM Dead People Montage always better than the Oscar Dead People Montage? And I'm pretty sure they missed some dead people. Goodbye, Paul Newman. You were a class act.

Heath Ledger's family did a fine job in memorializing him. I felt as teary-eyed as Kate Winslett. Here's to what could have been.

I was hypnotized by the best film montage and how they put each nominated film in the context of other films. Bravo. Took the least interesting category of the awards this year and made it worth watching.

Finally for anybody who stuck around for the credits -- and if you don't stick around for the credits you are a bad, bad person -- I am really psyched about both Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes starring Robert Downey, Jr. and Quentin Tarantino's Inglorious Bastards, starring everybody else. And now I really, really must download the song "Leopard Skin Pillbox Hat."

Friday Night DVR

The Mentalist. Simon Baker is a lovely, lovely man. Robin Tunney is as pointless as, well, Robin Tunney in anything she's been in. I understand a faint cheer went up across the land when she was finally dispatched on Prison Break. Put Robin Tunney, Elisabeth Roehm and Anna Torv together and you could form a perfect triangle of pointlessness. Seriously, all the charisma of used lawn furniture. The second best thing about The Mentalist is Tim Kang, or as the S/O refers to him, "Asian Jack Webb."

The problem with The Mentalist -- other than Robin Tunney lurching pointlessy about -- is that it's a CBS show. You know, the kind of show your grandparents watch. It's like a slipper, or oatmeal, or like a slipper full of oatmeal. And while slippers and oatmeal can offer a certain comfort, they lack pizzazz. When a show like The Mentalist -- acknowledging the charms of Simon Baker and Asian Jack Webb -- can be "America's Number One New Show" while Pushing Daisies is, well, pushing up daisies, just goes to show that we are not at all hip or cool or whatever the kids are calling it these days.

The New Twilight Zone. Episode 1 was "To See the Invisable Man," a sappy paean to the need to connect with our fellow humans, blah, blah, blah. Made me realize that if I was sentenced to a year of no one acknowledging my presence, I would be a very happy woman indeed. Episode 2 was "Button, Button," starring a delightfully dippy Mare Winningham and an almost as dippy Brad Davis as a bickering couple trying to decide if they should push a button that would kill a perfect stranger but deliver them $200,000.

Watching The New Twilight Zone on Chiller is like opening a time capsule from the '80s. Look! Bruce Willis with hair! Pam Dawber wearing a skinny pink tie and a cashmere sweater vest! It's uneven but there are some gems, particularly the adaptation of Robert McCammon's excellent short story "Nightcrawlers," and the nasty little tidbit "Need to Know" starring William Peterson. I still remember watching the adaptation of Ray Bradbury's "The Elevator" alone one night at college and being unable to sleep without the lights on.

BBC's Top Gear. First thing I realized while watching this episode: given the choice between the Dodge Charger, the Cadillac, the Corvette, and the old Fiat you had to drive with the boot open so the engine would keep running, I would still choose the Fiat. The second thing I realized while watching this episode: Jeremy Clarkson is a very funny man, but also the kind of guy likely to get you arrested for something you didn't actually do.

Adventures in Babysitting

The 8-year-old comes home from school yesterday telling me he's going to get a uniform demerit next week if he doesn't get a hair cut. You see, his bangs were TOUCHING HIS EYEBROWS. I mean the horror of it! Next you thing you know, he'll be the spitting image of Mickey Fucking Roarke.

I felt like snapping off a note stating, "I'll trim my kid's hair when you assure me that every teacher at your school can speak proper English." Last year in second grade he had a teacher who said things like "Valentime's Day" and "liberry" and "I seen him do it." And this is a PRIVATE SCHOOL that went up 10% in tuition this year. Maybe if they spent more time worrying about actual education instead of if a kid's bangs are touching his eyebrows or his socks are a few millimeters above his ankle -- I kid you not, they measure the socks in the mornings -- then this state wouldn't be freaking 49th in the Union in education.

I realize now that I'm paying people more money than I can actually afford just to piss me off.

Why I when I was a kid, you could go to school wearing nothing but a grass skirt and two coconuts, have birds nesting in your hair, and smoke a cigar while sitting in the front row of class, but the teachers knew that Africa was a continet and not a country and they could DIAGRAM A FUCKING SENTENCE.

Shtuff

Today was a windfall day, a "bank error in your favor" day, which leads one to think about fortune at the (possible) expense of others. Do you worry over who might be paying for your good fortune, or just take it as karmic balancing? Maybe a bit of both. I'll feel guilty for 10 minutes out of every hour for a few hours and eventually forget about it.

At least it makes up for yesterday, when I received a ticket for an expired license plate. Not a little expired, but 13 months expired. How do these things happen? Either I'm a genuine ditz or my head is chock full of MORE IMPORTANT STUFF. You can guess which option the cop chose. I explained to him that my incredulousness was not over the fact that it was so remarkabley expired, but that no one -- not the 17 police license and insurance checkpoints I'd endured over the last 13 months nor the inspector who issued my current brake tag -- had noticed that it was expired. Sigh.

Thanks to my S/O, I am fully legal again and no longer a menace to polite society. Hurrah! Of course attempting to be law abiding does nothing for my agent of chaos street cred. C'est la vie.

There's a First Time for Everything.

Well, I finally got around to it. Now everyone can stop asking me why I don't blog. This is a test, this is only a test, in the event of a real post, you would be directed to the nearest shelter. Soon to come: actual ideas, examples of the work, pithy comments, witty rejoinders, all manner of mayhem and merriment. Just as soon as I finish captioning all those lolcats.....