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Archive of Thoughtlessness - January '03 |
| 01/05/2003 |
Back in Junior High, our Principal would insist on reading a "Thought-For-The-Day" over the intercom each morning. We figured it was his way of trying to get around the "No prayer in school" rule. My friends and I were tickled pink, however, by this monosyllabic imbecile reading, aloud, philosophy that his tiny, shrew-like brain couldn't possibly comprehend. We used to picture him sitting in his office, paging through a book a quotations and saying "What the Hell does that mean?" about tens times per page. What used to really piss me off, however, was knowning that this idiot thought that these little bits of wisdom would somehow benefit us. That telling us that "He who is wise and knows not that he is wise is asleep. Awaken him" would somehow return the jobs that had been cut to the steel mill, put families back together, or make our bleak futures somehow brighter. Of course, the stupid bastard never seemed to pick up on any of the "positive" philosophy he shoved down our throats. Today, I'm thinking about finding his grave and pissing on it. I swiped this idea fron Kthor. |
| 01/06/2003 |
We really need to get rid of Oprah and bring back the "ABC After School Special." . Those things were a moral compass for my entire generation. That's where we all learned where babies came from ("My Mom's Having a Baby"), how to deal with bullies ("Hammerman's After You"), and why you shouldn't fuck with Puerto Ricans ("The Garcia's Reach Their Breaking Point") . Before Oprah, kids learned to work out their problems. Under Oprah's regime, kids just sit around waiting for Angels to help them. The closest thing that we have to the A-ASS right now is, sadly, the Lifetime Movie, and these things always follow the same damn formula - woman gets her ass kicked, woman fights back in court, woman get law and movie named after her ("Shot In The Tit - The Betty Didder Story.") After you've laughed your way through five or six of these things, the novelty wears off. While we're at it, we desperately need the "HBO After Work Special". HBO is my moral compass as an adult. From OZ I've learned that I wouldn't survive my first night in Prison. The Sopranos have taught me that Italian-Americans are decent, hardworking people who will kill you if given the opportunity. HBO should capitalize on its roll as moral guardian to America's adult population and start producing After Work Specials before the end of month. Hey, if any of you folks at HBO are reading this, here are some ideas for AWS's. "My sister's seeing a midget.", "My Mom's Having A Clone.", and "Hammerman's Still After You." By the way, I've added a new Life With The Poor |
| 01/07/2003 |
I awoke this morning with Rosalita (Come Out Tonight) by Bruce Springsteen stuck in my head and, immediately, started obsessing over the characters of Sloppy Sue and Big Bald Billy. "Sloppy Sue and Big Bald Billy, don'tcha know they're gonna be there" croons the Boss as if expecting the response " What? Sloppy Sue and Big Bald Billy are gonna be there? What didn't you say so before, Springqueen? This news bathes the event in an entirely different light. Sloppy Sue and Big Bald Billy, wow. You know, we never got to finish our discussion about Kierkegaard. That and Sue was gonna show me the wart on her ass shaped liked Gerald Ford." You know, if Rosenkrantz & Guildenstern could get their own play (and subsequent movie), why can't Sloppy Sue and Big Bald Billy get their own song? Somebody (And it'll probably end up being me, 'cuz I have to do everything around here.) really outta write an entire song about those two. And give Weak-knee Willie a line or two in that song. My major beef with Rosalita (Come Out Tonight) involves the following lines: To get his daughter in a fine romance 'Cuz the record company, Rosie, just gave me a big advance WTF? Up until this point, we'd all been rooting for this guy. We all thought he worked in a factory. Record Company? Advance? Fuck you, rock star. Hey, the record company sent over a plate of shit - choke on it. Jeebuz, if those lines were any worse, you'd think Kurt Cobain wrote them. Sloppy Sue and Big Bald Billy deserved better. |
| 01/08/2003 |
Obsessing over H.L. Mencken today. He once said that the American South was so devoid of culture that a poet was about as easy to find there as an oboe player. I swear that over the last thirty years the rest of the country has turned into the South (or, at least, what we used to think of as the South). What good was there in my Great-great Grandfather killing half of the population below the Mason-Dixon line if guys living in the suburbs of Philly are riding around in pick-up trucks, waving rebel flags, fag-bashing, and drinking Coors? Newsflash, fellow Northerners - we won the Civil War. Shit, Cooter, when I was kid, the word "President" evoked images of an educated man from a Mid-Atlantic State (or Nixon, who would be judged as a mental giant by today's standards). It did not bring to mind a guy who can quote freely from Smokey and the Bandit. Another few years of this crap and the kid from Deliverance will be sitting (an' a pickin') in the Oval Office. "Would you care to address you remarks to the Cabinet, Sir, or would you prefer to squeal like a pig?" Look, I'm far from being the smartest guy in the country (Fuck, I'll probably always be remembered as the idiot who wrote Takin' Retards to the Zoo.), but I'm not so stupid that I haven't noticed the rising tide of anti-intellectualism has reached my balls. Hey, good ol' boys, there's a new personal and ecard out thar fer y'all. |
| 01/09/2003 |
Tired and depressed over my job, I wrote the following:  Jim Jones: THIS IS NOT A DRILL. Keep drinking the Kool-Aid mah babies. The CIA will be here any minute with their guns and knives and bigger guns and sharper knives. OK, I can't help but notice that some of you (I'm looking in your direction, Mr. Farber) are still standing, which would indicate a certain reluctance to drink the Kool-Aid. Yes? You with your hand raised. You in the ...maroon, is it? Cult Member: Beige. JJ: Sorry, these damn sunglasses make everything look maroon. I was gonna bring another pair, but in the excitement of packing...well, long story short, these are what I've got. OK, and you question is... CM: What about Russia, Dad? JJ: Russia can't help us now, mah babies. We must drink... CM: Dad, Cuba's pretty close, right? Couldn't we call... JJ: Not even Cuba can help us, mah babies. Now we really should... CM: France is kinda... JJ: No, Jonesdamn it. Now drink the Kool-Aid. It's already starting to get warm. CM: Dad, about my kids... JJ: Oh, that reminds me - CHILDREN TO THE FRONT OF THE LINE. Where were we? CM: I don't really like my kids having sugary drinks like Kool-Aid. Frankly, little Justin ran around like a mad man after the last drill... JJ: THIS IS NOT A DRILL! CM: OK, but you said that the last time. My point is that Justin was so hopped up on sugar I had to give him three "Time Outs" in one afternoon. JJ: You have my word that this is NOT a drill, mah babies. CM: Justin, don't hit your sister. We do not hit in this family, young man. Hey, I don't wanna be a tattletale, but it looks like the Franklins are trying to escape into the jungle. Whaddaya kn... [Here, the tape abruptly ends. Side two contains the greatest hits of ABBA] |
| 01/10/2003 |
I'm way too tired and depressed tonight (For those of you keeping score, this is the second night in a row) to write a long
OK, I'm gonna take a nap. When I wake up I'll answer all the emails that I've gotten this week. Oh, and I'm gonna write that Rasputina piece. |
| 01/11/2003 |
Ever read something so astoundingly stupid (like the stuff on this web site) that it stayed with you for years? Here's the set up - The Time: At least fifteen years ago. The Place: Some tiny club in the Mid-West (Joe would remember where. Joe always remembers that kinda thing). The Milkmen had just finished a show and were hanging out when we were approached by a woman in her late thirty or early forties who was selling a fanzine. Ah, but not your run-of-the-mill fanzine. No this fanzine was about Sid Vicious. It seems (the locals later filled us in on the history of the woman - whom they described as a "royal pain-in-the-ass" - and her publication) this woman had met Sid Vicious once and he changed her life. How this transformation took place was still a matter for debate. Anyway, she spent all of her free time selling photos of Sid and her wonderfully poorly written Sid Vicious 'zine. The 'zine itself was a treasure trove of stupidity. Blurry pics of the late Mr. Vicious accompanied by the author's musings. One of these editorials explained in painful detail how Sid was actually a Feminist - despite beating and possibly killing his girlfriend. I swear, I read that damn piece three times trying to make sense of it. Finally, I just gave up and drank a few beers. The dumbest editorial (Which is kind of like being the most fucked up kid on the short bus.) was about the suffering this woman had endured for her art. It ended with this: "Even though I have a job, my son still qualifies for the free lunch program. This is the price I pay for being a woman - and for being Punk!" Jesus H. Buddha! It's bad enough that woman had a kid (He'd be about 20 now. And it's a pretty safe bet that he's mighty screwed up), but what amazed me was that she was complaining about getting something for free. When have you ever heard anybody complain about getting something for free? "Even though I have a job, I still recieve free samples of products in the mail. This is the price I pay for being a man - and for being Punk!" For years after I read this, whenever someone (male or female) would complain about anything, I'd say "Well, that's the price you pay for being a woman - and for being Punk!" Hey, I've posted a review of How We Quit The Forest by Rasputina in What To Listen To |
| 01/12/2003 |
I'm horribly sick, so today's thought is "Jesus, I'd love to stop vomiting." |
| 01/14/2003 | Sorry about leaving you all without a thought yesterday. I'm coming off of the worst stomach virus of my sordid life, and it's kinda hard telling people how to live when you're head is in the toilet (although regular readers might question rather or not my head is ever out of the toilet.). I've updated What To Rent tonight. I'll get What To Do tomorrow night, and I should have the BWB EP posted by this weekend. Sorry 'bout the delay, folks. |
| 01/15/2003 | Since there hasn't been a real Thoughtless for a couple of days, and since I'm still recovering from a bad stomach virus, I'm going to tell you all a story that happened many years ago in a dark and desolate land called Los Angles. But first, a little background info. In order to maintain a healthy lifestyle, everybody should have the same number of "good" and "bad" friends. For example, I have a "good" friend named Matt (whom I haven't seen in a long time) who used to offer me good advice like "I think you've had enough to drink" and "That chick outta be wearing a tag that says, "Hello, my name is 'Stalker'". I'm Matt's "bad" friend because I've offered him helpful advice like "You paid for it, drink the fucker" and "South Carolina - that means M-80's". I also have a "bad" friend named Ken (whom I also haven't seen in a long time). This is Ken story and it's 100% true. Ken and I were headed back to my hotel on Sunset strip after a long night of bar hoping when we spotted a car that had pulled to the side of the road, so we stopped to see if we could offer any assistance (Kids, this is not the smartest thing to do in LA, but Ken and I had an excuse - we were very, very drunk.). The car contained two young ladies who informed us that their car had stalled but that it now seemed to be working OK. They asked us if we could follow them home just to make sure that they'd be all right. Being gentlemen, Ken and I said yes (Dear Penthouse, I never believed your letters were real until...) OK, time for some more background info. You may be shocked to learn this, but I've never really been much of a ladies' man. The fact that I'm married to the most beautiful woman on Earth can easily be explained by my wife's failure to purchase corrective lenses until after we were married. Ken is my total opposite in this area. Although we are about the same height (5' 2"), Ken has blonde hair, blue eyes, and a silver tongue. While you're reading this, foolish mortal, Ken is walking through the VIP entrance to a club with a Bush twin on each arm. As we got back into Ken's car and prepared to follow the women home, Ken turned to me and said, "You've got the brunette, and I've got the blonde." Let's fast forward a little. Ken is in a parking lot fooling around with the blond and I'm in the same parking lot (about 30 feet away) fooling around with the brunette (A parking lot? Trust me, you don't want the details. That's why we had the little fast-forward at the beginning of this paragraph. Someday, you'll thank me for that, folks.) One last bit of background info, if you please (and, at the time, this was unknown to either Ken or me) - Ken's blond worked as a belly dancer. OK, here's the payoff. From out of the darkness, thirty feet away I hear to following, which is being presented, here, in play form: ACT ONE. SCENE ONE. Ken's Blonde: I'd love to take a little weight off my hips, but they earn me $1200 a week. Ken [without missing a beat]: As what? The counter-weight at a truck scale? [Curtain Falls] Here's the sad part, back when I was single, I used to get to kiss a woman maybe once every 7.4 years. So this was kinda a special event for me. After being in the fallout zone Ken's sick sense of humor, what little game I had was gone. I don't know much about women, but I do know that they tend to get angry if you start laughing while you're making out with them - especially if they didn't hear what your laughing at and there's no way in Hell that you can tell them. I've updated What To Do. It's way past my bedtime, so I'm gonna crash. If you've sent me an email recently, you'll - most likely - be hearing from me this weekend. |
| 01/16/2003 | OK, yesterday, I told you a story that starred my "bad" friend, Ken. In the interest of balance, I'm now going to tell you a story that features my "good" friend Matt (in a small, but pivotal, role). Tomorrow, I'll go back to the regular Thoughtless format. The Milkmen were on tour with Possum Dixon and we'd just finished sound check at a club in Atlanta. I split, walked around the corner and popped into a greasy spoon to grab a quick bite. I was sitting at the counter eating whatever it was that turned me into the bloated monster that I am today, when the owner/head cook/chief maniac pointed his meat cleaver in my direction and said "Hey, you. Are you a Mezzigan?" Not only was the question pretty weird, but the guy who was asking it had a kind of Eastern- European-by-way-of-the-Bronx accent. Highly freaked-out, I could only manage "Um...no…I'm not a Mexican." "Are you sure you're not a Mezzigan?" "Um…yeah. Pretty positive…" "'Cuz you're dark - dark like a Mezzigan." "I talk like a Mexican?" "No. Dark. You're dark - dark like a Mezzigan." I just shrugged. I mean, what could I say? That meat cleaver kept getting bigger and bigger. Fuck. Dark like a Mexican? Me? You people have seen me. I'm the whitest man alive. Robert Smith has a better chance of getting pegged as a Mexican than I do. This guy was obviously a few Mexicans short of an Alamo. Slowly, I became aware that none of the other dozen or so patrons seemed to think that this was, in any way, strange. It was like they were all just sitting there eating chili and silently thinking "There goes ol' Frankie again. I swear he's queer for Mexicans." As suddenly as Mr. Border Patrol had taken an interest in me, he quickly returned to grill. Except for the occasional glance over his shoulder and a few muttered "Dark like a Mezzigan"s, he ignored me. I ate quietly - until Matt came in. Matt was the roadie for the Milkmen and one of the best friends I've ever had. Matt stands well over six feet tall. He has black hair and a goatee. Despite being Jewish, Matt could easily pass for a Mexican. "Oh, this is gonna be tits" I thought to myself. Matt was walking past when he spotted me through the restaurant (and I'm using that word in its broadest possible sense. The place was, actually, more like a "Stain Museum".)'s window. He stopped in to tell me that he was headed back to the hotel. For my part, I was trying to get Matt to order some food (Again, the word is used in it broadest possible sense.) so I can see the look on Matt's face when the crazy fuck behind the counter informed him that he was "Dark. Dark like a Mezzigan." Unfortunately for me, Matt wasn't hungry, so he left. No sooner had Matt walked out the door, then the escaped-mental-patient-posing-as-a-cook turned to me and said "Ah, now he - he was a Mezzigan." Defeated, I said "No, sir. He's Jewish." Fucknutz observed a moment of silence before shouting "Wow! That's a really big Jew!" |
| 01/17/2003 | It snowed last night. Snow always makes me think of One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, and One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich always makes me think of work. The fax machine is broken. The reports are late, again. Will you show me how to make a spoon in the snow, Ivan Denisovich? Don't be sad. By this time tomorrow night, the entire first Burn Witch Burn EP will be available on-line. I promise. |
| 01/18/2003 |
Someone has been writing "Lies" on all of the newspaper boxes in center city in thick, black marker. At first, I thought this was great. Hey, I always encourage people to get a hobby. And then I thought that if you can convince enough people that a lie is the truth, then you've made art. Maybe someone should be writing "Art" on those boxes? Burn Witch Burn's The Burning Times (The entire EP) has been posted for your possible enjoyment. So possibly enjoy. I'll try to get to all your emails tonight. |
| 01/19/2003 | This just in - I hate football. Big surprise, eh? Yeah, I know that my dislike of football stems from being beat up by jocks my entire life. Actually, I'm indifferent to the game of football. It's the players and the fans that I hate. I consider the players to be a bunch of overpaid spoilt children (A few years back, it was (under)reported that one quarter of all NFL players were convicted felons), and I consider the fans to hapless dupes of the football industry (Newsflash - your local "team" is actually just part of a large corporation. Think about it. Would you sit for hours, in the cold, just to cheer for Pepsi?) Normally, I can just ignore this parade of extra chromosomes, but (lucky me) since the "Iggles" seem to be on their way to the Super Bowl (Since my tax dollars are helping to pay for their new stadium, I'm thrilled.) there seems to be no way of avoiding the throngs of green and white wearing idiots who couldn't find Iraq on a map, but can spare the time from their intellectual pursuits to inform me that "We're going all the way, baby!" (Breaking story, baby - The Iggles are going all the way. Not "we". "We" will still be the working-poor even if the Iggles win the Super Bowl and the Stanley Cup.). As I'm writing this, my city - the city of Franklin, the birthplace of the computer, the center of the art world - is being represented on television by a bunch of face-painting morons. Go Eagles. Yeah, right. |
| 01/20/2003 | Oh, sure, professional football isn't fake like, say, professional wrestling is. I'm sure it was just a coincidence that, after the good citizens of Philadelphia learned they'd be paying for the Eagles' new home, the birds made it into the playoffs. Just far enough to justify that new stadium, but not far enough to risk the attention of the national media being focused on a rust-belt city. No, nothing funny going on here. After all, the Buccaneers are from Florida, and nothing has ever been rigged in Florida. Hey, goobers, Life With The Poor #9 (#9, #9, #9...) has been posted. |
| 01/21/2003 | As if I weren't depressed enough, last night, on Joe Millionaire, the redheaded chick got sent packing. Ah, c'mon, she was the pick of the litter. Redheaded chick, if you're reading this, please takes some small comfort in the words of Schopenhauer: "Woman pays the debt of life not by what she does, but by what she suffers; by the pains of childbearing and care for the child, and by submission to her husband, to whom she should be a patient and cheering companion." Hey, if you've recently written me and I haven't written back, it's not 'cuz I'm an asshole (Well, maybe I am, but that's beside the point). I've been busier than Ben Schumin in a room full of pies at work (up at 5 - home 'round 7), so the mail has been piling up. I promise that I'll get to all of it soon. |
| 01/22/2003 | This morning at approximately 5:20am in Suburban Station, a crazy person yelled out what I'm fairly certain was "Fonzie was a goddamn rapist." This leads to two, equally frightening, conclusions:
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| 01/23/2003 | When I was three years old, I fell into a cesspool. I can tell you about this because I'm married. If I were single, I'd have to keep it to myself because there's no way in a Hell a guy could admit something like that and still manage to have sex with a woman who hadn't publicly promised to stick by him for better or worse. Even though it happened almost thirty-seven years ago, I still vividly remember the cesspool incident. I can remember scraping at the dirt around the hole with my little plastic rake. I can still hear the "plunk" sound I made falling in. I remember blackness, followed by the sight of my hands groping for the edge of the hole. I remember my Father pulling me out (I must remember to send him a card, thanking him for that.) and tossing me in the shower (Plenty o' nasty chemicals in those cesspools, kids. Oh, and a lot of shit, too. Fortunately, this was one of the few times in my life that I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut.). Lately, I've felt like I've fallen back into the cesspool. I'm treading crap in scale-model sea of shit. Endlessly grabbing at the sweet, green grass that rings the top of the pit, far too old and heavy to be pulled (or to pull myself) to safety. January has turned into a cold, brown hulking monster that spins on its heels and shambles towards February - its equally repulsive mate. |
| 01/24/2003 | Adam Ant Curt Kobain 
VS
 Dress Code: Adam Ant: Cool / sexy pirate outfits and war paint. Curt Kobain: Once wore a t-shirt that said "Corporate Magazines Suck "on the cover of a corporate magazine. Look, I used to dislike this ukulele playing dipshit named Steve M____, but, if he would've invited me over to his house, I would've said no. I would not have accepted and then shown up wearing a "Steve M____ Sucks" t-shirt - even though I have three of 'em. Best Lyrics: Adam Ant: Unplug the jukebox and do us a favor. That music's lost its taste, so let's try another flavor. Curt Kobain: I know I [unintelligible] 'cuz I've [unintelligible] and [unintelligible]. Yeah! Adam Ant: Amanda Donohoe. (Pronounced done-a-hoe)   That's right, the super-doable
woman from The Lair of the White Worm. Some limey loser once made the
mistake of attempting to stab Mr. Ant while he was on a date with Ms.
Donohoe. Amanda disarmed the guy and then proceeded to beat the shit out of
him. Curt Kobain: Courtney Love. (you don't pronounced it - you fart it) Whiney former stand-in for the Sea Hag. Also know as the last girl left in the bar. 'Nuff said. Adam Ant: Waved starters' pistol at a group of bar patrons who made fun of his cowboy outfit. Curt Kobain: Confused shotgun for late-night snack. Adam Ant: Taught an entire generation the importance of tight pants, a tighter rhythm section, and tight pu...well, you get the point. Curt Kobain: Dave Grohl |
| 01/25/2003 | Yesterday, I saw I sign in someone's yard that said "It's A Girl". When people give birth to freaks do they hang signs in their yards that say things like "It's A Dog-Faced Boy" or "It's A Three-Legged Fish Girl'? I'll have to ask my folks. Hey, please read my short story "Snowbird". It would mean a lot to me. |
| 01/26/2003 | In case you were wondering, here are my thoughts on the upcoming war with Iraq (Presently scheduled to being on Feb. 23rd): Yeah, muthafugga, yeah! Seriously, I'm too old to fight. I hate George Bush and Saddam Hussein, so if the war goes poorly for the US, then Dubya's approval rating will vanish, and if we take out Saddam, I'm more than OK with that. Plus, all that war footage on CNN, sweet! Hey, you're talkin' to a guy who once jerked off to the Zapruder film. But what if the Arab world gets pissed off and chucks a few nukes our way? Ragnarok, baby! The last battle of the Gods. My role in this Norse apocalypse will be to ride down Broad Street on the back of a musk ox, accompanied by 20 Welsh bowmen, swinging an axe and handing out peppermint schnapps to anyone under 12. Fear me, pink boy, for I am the instrument of Odin! |
| 01/27/2003 | People love to say stupid shit like "I was angry that I had no shoes, until I saw a man with no feet." If you ask me, that's the kinda thinking that keeps us all down. My motto is "I was angry that I had no shoes, until I saw a man with golden wings - then, I knew I was tripping." Speaking of tripping, it's Fongo vs. the RNC in the latest edition of You've Got Fongo. |
| 01/28/2003 | Last week I was (secretly) obsessing over Jarry's play Pa Ubu. I kept dwelling on the fact that Jarry had managed to touch off a riot just two words into the play (Technically, one word, since it was the word "Merde" repeated.). I came to the conclusion (again, secretly) that all art should be born in violence; else it fails to be art. For example, Altamonte was a great concert simply because of the Hell's Angels and the stabbing. The Stones didn't even need to play a note and the damn thing would've been a success. If the Talking Heads had had a death in their audience, Stop Making Sense would've been a great movie. So today, I'm sitting in Border's, eating my lunch (I go there everyday and order pretty much the same thing - variations on soup. Oh, try the bread bowl!), when I look up from my soup (minestrone) and notice that the woman at the next table is sketching me. The woman smiles and holds the sketch (an angry man eating soup) up so that I can see it. "Wow", I say, "I can't wait 'till somebody gets stabbed in the neck looking at that!" "Um, OK?" the woman says and starts sketching someone else as heads turn in my direction and looks of "Are you nuts?" come my way. I swear, most people know nothing about art. |
| 01/29/2003 | This morning, my friend Dave and I had a discussion about art and we came to the following conclusion: If you wanna stick needles in you privates, fine, if that's what makes you happy. Just don't film it and call it art, OK? You don't see Dave and me filming ourselves drinking beer and watching The Loved One, and then trying to pass it off as art, do you? |
| 01/30/2003 | Pssst…I swiped this from my Doctor's office today:  Somebody seems a little too happy about that self-exam. Hey, tomorrow, I'll announce February's Book of the Month. On Saturday, I'll post my review of The Corrections. |
| 01/31/2003 | Don't get me wrong, I think that Martin Luther King was probably the greatest American who ever lived, but the guy's a poor role model. I base this on the simple fact that he got shot. Same goes for Gandhi (minus the American part, of course.). Imagine telling a classroom full of bright, smiling faces that, if they work rally hard for a better world, they can look forward to getting gunned down (In many cases, by a branch of their own Government.) You know ho is a good role model? Hugh Hefner. Think about it. Hugh Hefner took a chuck of common knowledge (85% of all men - I'm not counting Gays and Baptists - like to look at naked women.), and turned it into a publishing empire/personal kingdom. I guess his female equivalent would either be Oprah or Martha Stewart - maybe Dr. Phil. God, that makes me sad. And thus ended January. A truly terrible month. I began it with a stomach virus and ended it with an ear infection. The ancient Greeks thought that terror was the source of beauty, so I guess I wasn't shivering from the cold, but in awe of January's terrible beauty. What can you expect from RATYHTL in February? Guest thinkers, some new short stories, and record reviews…Oh, the movie page will be undergoing a major change. By the way, the Book of the Month for February is The Secret History by Donna Tart. |
