Listening to: D.J. Shadow, Endtroducing...
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Yeah, OK, enough, enough, ENOUGH ALREADY - my dull root was stirred a month ago (with Cheerleader porn, if I recall correctly) and the damned lilacs have done little but clog my sinuses. Although we've had two days of spring rain earlier this week, today has been the second day of cold, fog, and light snow. It gets better. According to the weather, we're going to get another five days of crappy Canadian "Screw You, Esae" comeuppance (vicious but polite, they attempt to pass as Mexico, like some cosmic prank call).
Damn near May and it's still acting like mother fucking February. Yes, you've read this post before. And not only that but the stomach bug I had earlier this week has also returned, pinning me once again to the couch, to relive the agony of marathon true crime forensic shows.
Which makes me ask: what's the use of all the true crime forensic wizardry if, at the end of all of the poking and picking and ass impressions on the Xerox machine, the dude's roomate calls the cops and drops dime, "You got the guy you're looking for right here, Kojak, come get him, he told me all about it?" Seems anticlimactic to me and it pisses me off considering I could have been up and... well, no I wasn't getting up, or going far.
Seems like a long way to go for a bad joke.
This cruelest month is almost over. As such, I think we have everyone lined up for mixmania! and unless you work well under pressure, your mix should be ready to mail on Monday, so you'd better not sign up. None of us want crap, comrade.
As for those of you who have been spinning your mixes and thinking, "yeahhhhh," you'll be getting an email from me tomorrow (including pics of me after my 'Sudafed and Cigarette Diet"™ along with my pathetic appeal for a free IPod) designating where you'll send your little treasure. Remember: no telling what the mix is, no telling who you are, and no pussy photos (we don't do Friday Cat Blogging here).
Again, too far for a bad joke.
Thank you, T.S. Eliot. Eighty-three years later and we're still inspired by how long one can go for a punchline.