Missin' Knock Knock. Oh, well ...

One of those evenings that started out with the best of intentions. I was gonna go see the English Singles and Knock Knock at Old I, which for you out of towners is a bar here in Suck City. But between a frickin' recurrent cold and sore throat and the anti-social demeanor that comes along with that condition, I don't feel like being too social tonight. So here I am at another venue, listening to backwards baseball cap and knickers ponk ruck on some Sirius/XM chain wallet station, while a band upstairs makes a dull thump through their floor and my ceiling.

Not gonna mention the venue, except that a local monthly slammed it for not measuring up to its hipster standards, but said the tea was okay. I'm drinking a hot tea. And typing this. Jim Carroll's "People Who Died" is playing in the background.

And I died. Well, almost. Thought I had the gosh-darn pneumonia there for a few days. Jeepers creepers, this cold knocked my johnson so far in the dirt that I slept right through the Super Bowl. Now that I give two pazooties about anything that makes Condoleezza Rice vaguely orgasmic, or gives Richard Nixon a boner even in his grave, but it woulda been nice to see that cockamamie Patriots team get circumcised on national television. But then you have to put up with all the other televised excrement, like all those ghey as smooth jazz Bud Light ads and those wingnut dickwhistle commentators, so, well, the heck with that. I'll eat my toast and stare at the wall instead.

Guess I'm kinda grumpy tonight. Part of it was sitting in the unemployment office waiting for an assessment interview, and getting all depressed, especially when the nice lady, after I told her this was the first time I've been unemployed since 1982, said, "Oh, I've been hearing that a lot lately." Thanks, George and Dick. Hope life is nice in Dubai or Paraguay or whatever dictators' retirement paradise you end up in. As for moi, I'd settle for a decent paying gig working for and with some reasonable individuals.

Sidelight: I really really hate dancehall reggae. That is all.

Um, so here we are in an election season. I voted for Barack Obama in the primary, partly because my favorite candidate, John Edwards, dropped out of the race, and partly because Senator Obama is inspiring in a Robert F. Kennedy sorta way. And partly because Hillary Clinton is the kind of polarizing figure that might piss off enough people into voting for a tired old retread like John McCain. Or if Clinton doesn't do the trick, her crazy followers will. I've said this before, and I'll say it again: A Hillary Clinton presidency may turn out to be like a four-year-long episode of "Ow! My Balls!" from Idiocracy. Not that Senator Clinton will personally engineer that, but her fanbase, judging from what I've read online, seems to have an unhealthy head of piss-off built up through 20 years of pasty whiteboy wingnut AM radio bloviating, and they're likely to catch plenty of non-neocon nutsacks in their gardening shears when they get a chance at a payback. And, anyway, I already lived through the 1970s, and the idea of getting treated like a pariah because fate blessed me with dangling outdoor plumbing is something I'd relish as much as, oh, sitting through a marathon of acoustic solo performances by emo-band frontmen. No thanks.

But, given the choice of the Hill or Grandpa Death, I guess I'll have to vote for the candidate not affiliated with Karl Rove, and hope I can land a job that makes enough scratch so I can invest in several pairs of chain-mail underwear.

Heck whiz. Hobson's choices blow goat, don't they?

Screw it, eh?

Eh, No one's visited this blog for a while, I'm guessing? Feel free to post a comment, and then I'll start posting here again.