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Friday, August 06, 2004


I'm getting really tired of looking at that homely lady on the Yahoo! Mail main page.

I'm getting tired of how, in every conversation I have with every person, I end up inserting some stupid, inane comment about how there is a Billy Bragg song that is particularly apropos to what we're talking about, or pointing out that something the person just said either is or would make a good song title, band name, or album name, or reciting lyrics that I think are clever.

I'm getting tired of the way that I recite quotes (from everybody from Frank Zappa, to my former roommate, Evan), and think that passes for some sort of intellect.

I'm getting tired of the bad guy (or at least the not-as-good guy) always winning.

I'm getting tired of myself singing (in my head, mostly) the lyrics to Company in My Back off the new Wilco album. Particularly since I don't know the lyrics all that well, and could just listen to the actual song, instead.

I think it's fair to say that we're all getting tired of Dick Cheney.

Sheesh. I'm tired.

So Rick James died. And I'm frankly not sure that I give a rat's ass. Lots of people probably died. Probably most of them didn't burn people with crack pipes, etc.

Man. I'm lazy.

I thought I had something to say, but, as usual, it faded away.

It occurs to me that there may actually be relatively new readers out there, so for an explanation of this blog's title, go here.


Thursday, August 05, 2004


Last night, I dreamt that I was fishing for kestrels. (It might have been peregrine falcons, I forget). I had this lure that looked like a hummingbird. Somehow, it floated in the air just like a lure moves through the water. I would twitch it, and retrieve it in short bursts, and a falcon would zip down and nail it, and then I would reel it in. I think I was selling the falcons. I think they were alive when I sold them. I think that part came from an essay I read last night, in a David Quammen book, The Boilerplate Rhino. The essay was about rattlesnake roundups. Actually, they're not essays, they're columns he wrote for Outside magazine. Also, I went trout fishing yesterday, so maybe that's where the fishing part came in.

I welcome your interpretations of this dream.

There were some other, saucier bits to the dream, but even if I could remember them fully, they wouldn't be suitable for printing here.


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