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I am presently experiencing what has to be the most boring night in existence. From the time that I punched in, at two PM, there has been virtually NOTHING to do... save a few minuscule examples of desktop camouflage. And, my, how the time does drag... excruciatingly. I'd much rather be inundated with more than I can handle, instead of this time-wasting nothingness. Ick. Add to this the fact that it's like a mausoleum in here... those that did make an appearance today, are long since gone. Except for a few stragglers. There's little room for complaint, though... where else in the world does one get paid for sitting on one's ass for (supposedly) twelve hours? Land Of The Free, Home Of The Slacker. Not without its interesting points, this day. Like the conversation with my Korean cohort, who's flying to China tomorrow... to smuggle Bibles. Talk about a life-threatening experience, in an oriental 007 kind of way. The Falun Gong are dispatched from this world for less. I hope there's wry humor and a Bond Girl in the mix, for him. The minions of Mousie Dung may make life... difficult. The next few days promise to be less harrowing ones for me, but exertions, nonetheless. After tonight's dash in the dark, it'll be yet another to the remote wilds of Virginia in the afternoon for Thanksgiving dinner. And, as it will be for so many, possibly a cold one... reception-wise. Nearly a year passing since last seeing Miss Jane's daughter and children will make for interesting silences... but I'm mainly going for the kids. They don't deserve the fallout from the blunders of adults. Yet they always get it, regardless. So I've experienced. A phone-in interview is scheduled for noon, Friday, with a band from California. That'll give me about enough time to do some basic editing before a final mixdown, to be broadcast an hour later. Then, to Biggles' 'ouse for some jambalaya and beers. Then, I'll collapse on Saturday. From what I've seen on this here D-Land, people don't want to read anything about your dreams. Well, Tough Shit. No one's forced to read someone else's scribblings to begin with... and who's to benefit from a diary, anyway? Anyway, I'm kinda freaked by last night's performance. In condensed form, there was something about being passed a plate of indescribable meat, slightly charred, vaguely gonad-al. The catch? It was something that was surgically removed from me! THAT woke me up. And the soundtrack in my head to accompany returning to consciousness: Screamin' Jay Hawkins' adaptation of "I Love Paris." Time for a checkup, from the neck up. I can take no more. The highway becons. Might be able to catch Sky Sp*rts for the news about Arsenal's dismembering of AS Roma in Italia when I get there.
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