Between three days of back pain and a touch of the stomach bug that’s been making the rounds, I ended up at home today. You might think this a chance to relax and be, generally speaking, a good lazy bum. You’d be right… but I don’t like having almost nothing to do all day and no energy to do it with.
I’ll be glad to get back to work tomorrow. I kid you not.
From a somewhat tongue-in-cheek interview, a gem of truth:
Q: While at Nobu not long ago, I spotted Donald Trump and reality-show creator Mark Burnett dining. Should I have thanked them on your behalf or violently cursed at them on the world’s behalf?
A: Assuming you did neither, you did the right thing – you participated in your own life, something the average American has completely forgotten how to do. Burnett didn’t create unfulfilled lives, he just caters to the mass audience that has them.
Have I mentioned that I hate Survivor and its ill-begotten ilk? No? Well then.
(This post is brought to you by the nightmares that sunk their claws into my psyche and would. not. let. go. thus forcing me to turn on all the lights and go randomly websurfing to fill my mind with non-nightmarish things. Of course, by the time I’m able to go back to sleep… the alarms will go off. This, after spending hours getting to sleep in the first place, is making me not entirely happy with how today is already turning out. Argh.)
This is what happens when (twisted) inspiration strikes during a pumpkin-carving party.
Today marked the first time in as long as I can easily remember (which I admit isn’t saying much) that we had to deal, company-wide, with an email-borne attack. I don’t think it was a virus, per se; I suspect it was more along the lines of a phishing scam. Still, I haven’t had to send out one of those “don’t open attachments” emails in quite some time.
Hmm. Now that I think on it? I don’t really miss those days all that much…
Would you say that a listening session during which I go from Duran Duran to Daft Punk to NIN to Peter Gabriel to Limp Bizkit to Spiritfall to Yuki Kajiura back to Duran Duran on the way to Jethro Tull and then Garbage and Rammstein and The Space Brothers and finally landing at a track from the Moulin Rouge soundtrack counts as moderately eclectic?
No? Damn. I’ll have to try harder next time.
This is what I get for making the “little grey duck” the national animal of Karelingian Miniscule. Check out one of the positions on the latest issue to come up for my review:
“Banning little grey duck hunting would be the end for centuries of tradition!” wails esteemed aristocrat Dave Washington from atop his steed. “The thrill of the chase, the baying of the hounds, the little grey duck scooting through the undergrowth – it would be a travesty! We provide much needed stimulus to the local tourism, and you can’t deny that little grey ducks are pests – killing farmers’ livestock for example! I propose that little grey duck hunting be encouraged, for the cultural – and economic – benefit of the nation!”
For the record, not once have I killed farmers’ livestock. Honest.
(In case you’re wondering, I took the “less cruel, instantly lethal” position. It’s hard to argue with a girl assembling a trebuchet, you know?)
