Got Mashed Potatoes

I bought a book on logic recently. I wish the whole world would read it.

We've got this parks crunch around Milwaukee. Basically, there's no money to fund the parks. There are a lot of parks. So the county executive wants to put coffee shops in the parks, with the hanger being that they would fund some of the upkeep. Well, of course the do-gooder liberals from my neighborhood (I tell you I'm fucking surrounded by these people) are all in a huff about corporate America taking over their parks. I bet all my reproductive organs that if a coffeeshop went into the park pavilion by my house that these same whining bastards would be first in line for a latte.

I need to make more money. I don't make awful money. But I need more of it. I know that my saying that is nothing new in the pantheon of experience of the American worker. Nevertheless, I again repeat the obvious: more money = better.

Who the hell is buying satellite radio now? Don't all these people know that THERE'S FREE RADIO! Also, given the rate of technology right now, isn't everything going to be on the web anyway? Yet somebody gives Howard Stern 500 billion dollars. That guy. That doofus gets 500 billion. Me, I'm just trying to pay a water bill.

Here are all the words my co-workers and I decided were bullshit today: deconvert, pre-heat, pre-schedule, basically anything with the prefix "pre".

Scared more people on my run today. High school kids skipping class. They recovered pretty well, though.

On his terrific Honeycomb CD, Frank Black is wearing a shirt that I own. It's kind of exciting and meaningless all at once. He must shop at Kohls. I'm pretty sure he's an XL, though. I'm an L. So we're not twins or anything.

I've been playing a lot of cowbell recently.

I guess the key is recognizing what one has. For example, in my previous life, it was very hard for me to understand women, even though I communicate better with them. Damn them. I particularly remember one drunken experience in which some beautiful woman was head-over-heals for some big, tall BALD guy. I could not get over this (partially because of drunkenness). It made no sense to me that I could be beaten out (and really, I didn't even register a blip on her meter) by a dumb-looking, boring, BALD guy. I kept saying it, over and over: a fucking BALD guy! A BALD guy! How can I move on when a chick is more interested in a big, stupid BALD guy instead of me? That was a difficult period. Actually, I still don't think I accept that one.

I hate general statements about men, women, people, the world, etc. Which is why I love coming upon one that seems worthy of stating (because there are so few). Thus, the world generally breaks down into people who incorporate "whatnot" into their vocabulary, and people who do not. I was one who became attracted to whatnot. This simple, easy word seemed to add so much to conversation. People say it and others nod, as if to agree, "Of course! Whatnot! That means it happens in other instances. Brilliant!" But then Strunk, White, and my educational background woke up and shouted out: Meaningless! All these people are saying NOTHING! Whatnot! Fucking nothing!

I know, I'm in a really profane mood tonight. This is one of those posts in which my mother will later say to me, "Willy, I had a chance to read your blog. Very unnecessary, all that swearing. I really don't like it."

"It's allright Ma, I'm only bleeding."

Speaking of which, I have made the unfortunate, and in my eyes, cop-out, decision to remove my name from my profile. This is in response to being too easily Googled by people I work with. I don't really like to answer more questions than I have to.

I'm looking for more live music. I wrote a poem the other day, first one in ages.

I had a very matter-of-fact discussion about child rape and mastitis this week. That's one you don't see coming.