Monday, March 31, 2003

In The Wake of A Three Run Homer 03.31.03

It's opening day for teams outside of the Angels + Rangers, who played last night. In response, in 30-degree weather, with 20-degree windchills, in front of a packed house desperately hoping for a good and competitive team for their $20 + dollar tickets, the Mets have laid a mother-f***ing egg. From the free agent Tom Glavine, to the possible fifth starter Mike Bascik, to the me-sized Scott Strickland, to guys who can't make throws without bouncing them--

I can't believe I came home early to see this shit. I mean, this s**t.

Ah, the joys of baseball season.
This Guy Is Pretty Good. 03.31.03

This guy is much better than I talking about the foibles of war and exposing some hypocrisies. Hell, it might be his job. His name is Roger Ailes and I admit to totally jacking his blog's style. He is going into the newspapers + magazines column, please keep reading him.

Friday, March 28, 2003

A Rush Of Argument to the Head. 03.28.03

While we wish for our troops to return from the "pre-emptive" strike our elected governing body has sent them to execute, and while we talk to like-minded people about how shitty this is, remember that we have the power to effect change. That we have the power to spread the word that whether war is right or wrong, there is a problem with completely stepping around protocol and diplomacy.

And this might mean that our short-sighted attempt to "protect our nation" (they were looking at me wrong, so I smoked their ass!) or "free Iraq" (hey, they'll really like occupation, poverty, and our corporate Western styles) may lead us to long-term negative outcomes.

Now, take this (or whatever your opinion is) and think about the converse, the opposition. Think about what arguments can be made for going to war, for avoiding diplomacy. Have a little healthy self-doubt.

Now, take that process and instead of talking to the protester next to you (though brining attention to protests is good work and part of the true American Way), find someone who wholly disagrees with you. Somewhere, you will come across this person. Engage them in conversation, not in argument; get them to lay out their premises and nod your head respectfully as you learn their side of the story.

When they are done, don't rip them a new asshole. Unless you have to. Point out that this is healthy debate, and our government is working hard to take healthy debate and doubt out of the equation; refuses to listen to its own populace or the rest of the world (except for Britain. Why ARE they involved in this?); and that this disables our ability to work with the rest of the world in many other arenas-- including the safety of Americans abroad, the willingness of other countries to keep an eye out for terrorist endeavors, et cetera.

Okay, go!
An Adrian Brody Note. 03.28.03

From the Electronic Urban Report:

Best Actor winner Adrien Brody has more than one act conquered. The star who brought home the Oscar last Sunday for his role as a Jewish pianist who eluded the Nazis in Roman Polanski’s “The Pianist,” is more than an accomplished actor. He is also an aspiring hip-hop producer.

E! reports that the thespian has been “moonlighting” as a hip-hop producer named A. Ranger. The New York Post even claims that impresarios like P. Diddy and Jay-Z have even considered Brody to be pretty good. And Brody friend, DJ Stretch Armstrong describes Brody’s works more like trip-hop. Well what do you know. Guess Eminem wasn’t the only hip-hopper to snag an Oscar this year.

Thursday, March 27, 2003

Pico Asks... 03.27.03

Have you taken your neighbor over your knee and burped them today? Have you turned to someone you'd really like to make time with and said "how about I go down on you for like half an hour, or until you scream my name?" Have you stepped into the sunlight and thought, it's high time I go chasing a bird around the park, calling it by a name I make up?

Wednesday, March 26, 2003

Private Eyes Are Watching You 03.26.03

(from monday evening)

Sometimes they had all the soul of a skyscraper. And when bands rehash their hits, they often forget the pop hooks and incorporate their supposed musical talent, in an effort to remind you that they are trained musicians and not monkeys with a catchy hook + chorus.

But Hall and Oates live, with call in requests at John Jay College? Hotness. One of those requests is from Carly Simon on a houseboat in the Atlantic? Sweet! Thank you A&E, for collecting a roomful of dorks in their mid-30's and thanks to me for being the same complete dork.

Because then they whip out Me and Mrs. Jones - not the Counting Crows song, the Billy Paul original, also covered by Marvin Gaye - and they get all into their Philly sound and their Apollo soul and break it on down. I go on the record, some if it was awesome.

Monday, March 24, 2003

Round of Dirty Thirty-Two 03.23.03

Up above New York State, an hour or so away, lies Mohegan Sun, a mecca for weekend gamblers and Michael Jordan Steakhouse lovers. My friends will plan out trips to pile in a car and lose their money. A good time is had by all, they get drunk, relate stories, play roto baseball in the backseat of the car, catch up;

Down the Jersey turnpike is Atlantic City, famous for its boardwalk but more importantly for its bevy of gambling opportunities-- the Las Vegas of the East Coast. Except darker and smaller and shadier and perhaps with more hair gel and gold-chain tricksters. And out there, with the sea breezes drifting in, people drop coins for anything from slots to blackjack;

I don't bet.

This weekend I realized why. Drop just a ten spot on the NCAA tournament, and I found the highs and lows of basketball games making my stomach churn like Clooney and Wahlberg were riding my seas. Especially since I was perfectly right for the first five or six games. I was freaking Nostradamus. I was a goddamned oracle. I sayeth'd the sooth. Whoo-hah, do I love being right.

And then I was ridiculously wrong, over and over again. That's the last time I listen to the pundits about Mississippi State. U Penn, U tried. Notre Dame, I'm coming to South Bend and laying down a "terror attack," which will consist of my pointing and yelling. That's all. Homeland Security, please don't hurt me. I've read your suggestions.

Fo' sheezy, do I hate being wrong.

Thursday, March 20, 2003

While You Avoid War Coverage… 03.20.03

My little brother is an aspiring rapper. Like so many other people in New York. I’ve met some of his fellow rappers, a red-headed kid from Cambridge, MA; another white kid from Cambridge; some Latino kid who may or may not be Latino from Hartford. Last night he told me about a fellow named Aztec, a white kid from St. John’s University (yes, people really go to that school) who is signed to the Ruff Ryders label, home to DMX and Beanie Siegel-- whom he ripped in a freestyle battle, supposedly.

A couple of weeks ago, as Mariella was regaling myself, Gully, and Soldati (along with the rest of the I-Bar) with song, a young man was pointed out to us. A young rapper signed to Eminem’s label, Shady Records, who’s supposed to be “blaze,” as the kids say.

My question, is, of course, are there any black rappers out there? Can you hear me?

No? Then I have found my calling. I’m founding a rap group with New Topography, we’re gonna smack fire out your ass. And change the world with our wordplay about gunplay and how nice we are. And I don’t mean nice as in pleasant, dog.

Wednesday, March 19, 2003

International Law 03.19.03

from Reuters/ Yahoo News

BERLIN (Reuters) - President Bush and his allies are unlikely to face trial for war crimes although many nations and legal experts say a strike on Iraq without an explicit U.N. mandate breaches international law.

While judicial means to enforce international law are limited, the political costs of a war that is perceived as illegal could be high for all concerned and could set a dangerous precedent for other conflicts, lawyers say.

The U.N. Charter says: "All members shall refrain ... from the threat or use of force against the territorial integrity or political independence of any state." It says force may only be used in self-defense or if approved by the Security Council.

Many leading legal experts have rejected attempts by Washington and London to justify a war with Iraq without a new resolution explicitly authorizing force.

"There is a danger that the ban on the use of force, which I see as one of the most significant cultural achievements of the last century, will become history again," said Michael Bothe, chairman of the German Society for International Law.

Washington and London have argued that U.N. resolution 1441 passed unanimously last year -- demanding Iraq disarm or face "serious consequences" -- gives sufficient legal cover.

Amid criticism that 1441 does not explicitly authorize war, they have also argued that military action is legitimized by two other resolutions passed before and after the 1991 Gulf War (news - web sites), although Russia has fiercely rejected this argument.

Bush has also said that a war would be a legitimate "pre-emptive" act of self-defense against any future attack.

The U.N. Charter says self-defense is only justified "if an armed attack occurs." When Israel tried to justify its 1981 strike on Iraq's Osirak nuclear reactor as an act of pre-emptive self-defense, the Security Council unanimously condemned it.

Bothe said the attempt by Washington and its allies to justify an attack showed the political power of international law despite the paucity of formal legal devices to enforce it.

"There is unlikely to be a court case," he said. "Those responsible won't be jailed but they can be made uncomfortable."

[--click on the link for more--]
Vignettes 03.19.03

---Did anyone notice, by the way, that our national Shrub had a little trouble when he told the Iraqi people not to burn their oil wells, because they are a source of -pause- Iraqi income? As if he wanted to put in “because they will stabilize our gas prices?” Plus, how long will this “war” a/k/a unfounded aggression go on? Give me your best estimates. Then, how long will the US occupation of Iraq go on? Best estimates on that one also. FOX will be running a news ticker and interactive polls; Joe Buck and Cris Collinsworth and Troy Aikman will be giving us play by play and nonsensical anecdotes.

---What did Lisa Rinna do to get famous? Besides get those fake-ass lips.

---I will not get up in Nevada Smith’s and sing Hall & Oates. Before my sixth beer. See, I’m more mature these days. My ass is under control. Plus, no matter how much someone butchers “Say It Isn’t So,” I will remain seated. But, thanks for coming out, Karen, Selvadurai, Steph, Silver, Dani, Diana. Also, thanks to Dani and Diana for filling out NCAA Tournament brackets for me. Your picks are ridiculous and probably more correct than any conventional wisdom.

---Go UNC Asheville! Congrats on winning the play-in game, and now you have a chance to be run off the court by future NBA players! Doooope. Still, what a great opportunity-- a pair of small schools that no one would normally watch get a little prime-time love, play a very good over time game filled with score changes, clutch shots, and players linking arms on the bench for luck. You played a tough-ass schedule and you’ll put up a good fight.

For five minutes on the clock. It’s tournament season.

---Yes, I am going to drink Bacardi. Because it’s my birthday.

Tuesday, March 18, 2003

Rocket Sized Rifts 03.18.03

That Bush fella is creepy. Creepy in how convincing or convinced he is. Not just in the “let’s go to war” sense, but the Presidential Shrub really feels that he knows something that the rest of the world does not have the gumption to admit. Maybe that imperialist concept is “the brown people need a controlling hand,” and perhaps the French and Germans are trying to live that sequence of their imperialist history down.

I couldn’t say. I’m tired of this shit, it’s spring break, I have a novel to edit and a midterm coming up; and all of the efforts to put the brakes on a destructive war aggression (war crime? Except it’s not crime when you control the letter of the international law) are futile.

Fuck it, I’m gonna drink beer, cheer for UNC-Asheville, and pray for my safety and the safety of my loved ones.

Monday, March 17, 2003

The Best In Sport 03.17.03

Also, I will answer all questions about picking your NCAA tournament bracket. If I have some time I will also give a set of rules on picking teams in this space. I am here to make you (yes I am pointing at your nose) some cash, dog.
After the Party is the Hotel Lobby 03.17.03

So, here’s the thing-- I won’t sum up this party. I feel the need to “protect the innocent.” Except I will say that I hope that everyone was okay; there was dancing; I ended up flashing my underwear; and people fell sideways to the floor. So I guess that the party was some kind of rousing thundering puke inducing success.

I spent my five waking hours on Sunday on my back watching basketball and learning about the teams that got into the NCAA tournament, and shaking one small fist at the selection committee which gave Boston College the selection dill.

I am also glad the David Bianculli of the NY Daily News saw what I saw when he turned on All-American Girl, a show with less direction than Baywatch:

As on "American Idol," the judges get more screen time than the contestants; Gerri Halliwell seems to be channeling the spirit of Paula Abdul, perhaps secretly aware that were she and the four other former Spice Girls to enter a talent competition, few would make it out alive.

This contest is absurd. It's bad television, except in the one segment where it was so blatantly sexist and demeaning it was almost amusing. Making the young women wear bikinis, then scamper through an obstacle course that had them swimming, crawling on their bellies and running through a field of tires was jiggle TV at its most absurd and dehumanizing.

Post-Script: Dave, Sam, the musical gifts were dope.

Sunday, March 16, 2003

Saturday, March 15, 2003

The Joyface Invasion 03.15.03

The mother grabbin' Ides of March. The hotsteppin' day of the party. The night Gully + myself put kids in a packed situation, turn the music on, lube it up with beers and hard drinks, and watch the chaos. I think we're addicted to the motion of a party; we could have had a pleasant dinner, or just had a few beers with a few friends. Instead we've invited people we haven't seen in a year, cleared out his apartment, and got ready to throw the early contender for bash of the year-- I'll tell you how this jammie goes.

The playlist will include some of tonight's hits... including the Isley Brothers and Frankie Beverly.

I write this while drinking a Cranberry Apple Raspberry beverage, which we will nickname "CrApby."

Friday, March 14, 2003

City Council 03.14.03

Now, this shit makes me sick (It should be the cartoon from today’s NY Post). And this is a simple reminder of how we have mixed our brown protagonists in the zealous push to a quick and televisable war.

Before this continues-- why March 17th? Doesn’t Bush like basketball? Why must you do this during the NCAA tournament? How about in May when the fun of opening day baseball has worn off, but before the NBA playoffs get really interesting? Why not in January and February, when we’re bored? This is obviously an attack to distract us, so we can time this bad boy whenever we like. So, how about we put it off until after Oklahoma wins the national championship?

Back to that aforementioned shit. So, this cartoon intimates that airplane suicide bombers have something salient to do with Iraq-- the slippery assertion that no one has actually proved. That Iraq is poised for aggressive action. That Iraq was behind that. That if we don’t do something, the crazy brown Allah freaks are gonna get the drop on us. Okay. Sure.

Liberal or not, wouldn’t one think that the non-governmental district/ city that was victimized by the attacks would have a strong urge to see those who did it punished? Or is it assumed that we, like Elizabeth Smart, that New York is drugged out and brainwashed to identify with our attackers?

Or that, even worse, that representative government thing sometimes means that the voice of the “people” is sometimes heard?
Sleep to Dream 03.14.03

Like the one song I learned in grade school on the recorder, someone has shaken my dreamland tree and down comes lovely dreams for me, sleep baby sleep. Or maybe there are apples in my dreamland tree. I wake up with the feeling of being bonked in the head by manifestations of Newton’s Law. And always, I rouse myself a little confused, a little tired from running through my own mind all day.

Two days ago I dreamt that I was some sort of protector of people’s little sisters. Not just their little sisters-- the little sisters they never knew they had. And there I am adventuring about with a rifle and comfortable clothes, the kind you can jump over storage boxes down at the docks with. There were accidents, guile, trickery, and I think I posed at the window like Malcolm X looking out, rifle in hand.

Last night, I dreamt that I was in my high school. Which had added on three or four floors and became a complex with a multi-floor library; many dank hallways for “maintenance” except they looked like they were hallways for “drug deals, murder, and the collection of brackish muck”; a huge auditorium that President Clinton came to, started to speak and then left from. The kids, one of whom looked distinctly like the kid from Star Trek: Voyager and now Reba, asked me about my college and I told them about the bedtime stories we used to get as one of the most charming draws. They knew that doesn’t happen anymore. (does it? I don’t even know.)

There was a café on the sixth floor, untended, with bathrooms the size of cabinets. But I tried anyway. A not-so-kindly grizzled maintenance man suggested the fifth, a floor covered in kindergarteners and kindergarten words and teachers in anachronistically formal teaching dresses. Hallways were empty and all the classrooms were busy with learning.

No escape!

I woke up with words scrolling across my vision. This sleep thing has got to go.

Thursday, March 13, 2003

Pico's Got A Brand New Bag! 03.13.03

Uh! My bad self. Seriously... what should the new look Pico site link to? What do you want access to? News? Porn?

Wednesday, March 12, 2003


What the fuck is this All-American Girl shit? I enjoy a parade of slim scantily clad young ass the same as the next hornball but come on-- at a certain point this shit is RIDICULOUS.

Is this a beauty pageant? Why are they in bikinis? More importantly, why are they in bikinis, wet and squirming from the pool to a climbing net and then down underneath foot-high netting over a rubber floor to then bounce up, and I do mean bounce, to take underhand basketball shots?

Why are the judges John (Best Damn Sports Show, Period) Salley, a former backup NBA center, now sports show host; Suzanne (Who the fuck is this woman?) De Passe (apparently a producer and black. Must have been a few generations back.); and Geri (Whatever Spice she was) Halliwell and her pink cheeks. By the way, Geri is still British. Picking this All-American girl. Just saying. I might have found television I won’t watch. And it’s from the creators of American Idol too. Maybe that’s why the bile’s in my throat.

Maybe now I'll learn to just watch the commercials on the other channels instead of surfing.

Sunday, March 09, 2003

AssWhoria Purgatory 03.09.03

I don’t love Queens to death. But to quote Funkdoobiest, “I got to live here.” Yeah, I know I don’t HAVE to live here, you sarcastic lamb fucker, I heard you in the back. Love it or not, this is home.

I have respect for Queens. And even though I don’t believe in astrology (yes, bartender, I am a Pisces), and though my vehicle doesn’t have running lights (or 20-inch rims or dice hanging like nuts from my rearview), and though I don’t listen to the Calling or Linkin Park (… regularly…), I won’t disrespect people who do to their faces. Or loudly. Or by looking at them in that voyeuristic it’s-so-quaint manner that we decry in educated white documentary filmmakers whose subject matter is a third-world ghetto.

Now, here is the thing. On top of that, I hate dinner. I’ve thought about that long and hard. Dinner is silly. I don’t much like it. Dinner at home is questionable enough; I like to eat by my lonely since even when I’m not talking I eat like a snail makes nookie. I like breakfast, I like sweets, but I hate wasting time eating. Just not something I do.

In comparison, going out to eat could be fun. Also could be hellish. Trapped at a table listening to someone yammer when you’d rather, I don’t know, watch television, read a book, leave. Talking usually means I end up the last one eating. Not to mention that there is nothing more depressing than being stuck on the end of the earth in a restaurant with unused karaoke (yet the videos are playing) and finding yourself get tired, tired…

Good, got that one out without getting really snippy, saying things I won’t mean another day. Such as how much I hate to hear able-bodied people bitch about walking when it was their choice. Then I could look back upon those statements and use them as evidence of the crabby future man-spinster I am becoming. Razzle-frazzit!
Asswhoria Heavenly 03.09.03

After the long ride across Queens, a pleasant surprise-- I run into an ex-classmate, Kat. Kat is short for something much longer. And most of the time I’d like to call her Ekie or Eka but most people find it violating when their name is truncated in illogical ways. But I run into Kat and that’s a thrill, she’s a really nice person. Plus, like me, is a Queens native.

Friday, March 07, 2003

Nets All Tangled 03.07.03

*yes this is sports related*

There are few things I love more than being right. Well, let’s see. There is chocolate pudding, pretending to be the tough guy, stories so long they’re indulgent, scoring in softball, high-wire writing, dragon stout beer, and spunky women. Nah, that’s a lie. I love being right more than all of that put together and wrapped in red bows.

I think about this as I watch the Sixers play the Trailblazers, this just after the Nets are eviscerated again, tonight by the San Antonio Spurs. The Nets simply cannot score. Their defense could be a little tighter; but the real problem is that they cannot score unless they are running the fast break. It was the same ineffective half court plodding last year, even as they made the finals.

But the scoring has taken a flaming nosedive. And I said it would! I did! I thought it was bull-cookies that the team and the media were piling on Keith Van Horn, the man who routinely scored the team’s first 15 points until he was adjusted for. He could have scored the team’s last 15 points… but at least he could score in a variety of ways, which is impressive for a man who spent four collegiate years (a young man’s, ah, peak) in Utah.

There is no way you could take Van Horn out of the offense and replace him. Not in points per game. Not in the numbers. But in the things Keith could do. In the quality of shots the team creates in the half court and in the running game.

Last year, Keith Van Horn would take shots in the high post, left open, waving a skinny long hand. He was a threat in the post. A threat out on the wing for a big man to guard, taking that defender away from rebounding duties. Opening up the lanes. And Todd MacCullough would clean up the garbage. The shooting guards had time and room to shoot, and less pressure to do so.

Now, those shooting guards (Kittles + Harris) are both elbow-deep in shooting slumps. The Van Horn replacement was to be Rodney Rogers (and his fat barrel belly. That comes free with the contract.) but he doesn’t have the ability to score in bunches like the supposedly inept/ deficient/ downy pillow soft Van Horn could. The center is Jason Collins, not the injured Dikembe Mutumbo.

And while Richard Jefferson and Kenyon Martin are now free to tear the orange off the rims and lay waste to people on the defensive end, sometimes in basketball people have to SCORE. Lanes can be clogged, drives can be halted. Jump shots are sometimes taken. I’ve seen it on television. It would help if those aforementioned players actually laid people to waste on the defensive end too. They look cooler than Van Horn, with the bald heads and the dunking, but still. I want to see blood, wincing, pain!

From the Nets, we get reaching, bricks, Jason Kidd shooting a whole lot, Richard Jefferson looking tired like he parties with Mr. November, Derek Jeter. For God’s sake, I want to see Dikembe again and not just for his quotables and his voice-- a cross between a smiling African phone sex operator and tires over gravel. He actually, while not understanding the offense and looking five steps slower, was more effective than Jason Collins and Aaron Williams. Besides, you never know when you’ll get the finger wagging.

I just want someone who can play. No, I just want someone who can nail his shots to complement the drives of Jefferson/ Martin/ Kidd. And being me more joy than pudding and dragon stout.

P.S. I lied. I like spunky women as much as being right.

Thursday, March 06, 2003

White Page 03.06.03

All right. Who’s in charge of this weather thing? Who didn’t read the “no snow in the Lenten season” post? I’d better stretch; got some shoveling to do.

Tuesday, March 04, 2003

Bloated Lollipop Balloons, Late Winter 03.04.03

I feel so bloated. Like a rotund little ball-boy in a chair, typing. I don't know if my fingers and arms can overcome the immense gravity of my stomach. Processing eggs and a large cinnamon danish and coffee. Glad I laid off the pancakes. I would be lolling about the floor, gripping my tum-tum and wondering if this is what if feels to be inverted, to become a black hole. I mean, at least I didn't eat two Corner Bistro burgers at 3.30 in the morning. I'd still be feeling it. I'd be praying for flatulence as a relief.

As is, my belly feels larger than I remember it; my rib cage is probably actually in retreat as we speak. An outcome I have been hoping for, yet not accompanied with this feeling, this weight. I want wings. And hollow bones. And flight. A trampoline would temporarily do in this case.

Coupled with today's inability to tie my own laces properly-- they came undone not once, not twice, but about six times in a six block walk--I am destined to pull a Pixel and fall in some utterly comic manner. I think, really, it is my boots. They are tired of being worn on a daily basis, as I have had to this winter. They are not used to such exercise, to still stepping over blackened (as if by pepper) fillets of snow on grass, on sidewalks, on dirt, on top of empty bottles of Hennessey.

The boots are also heavy. I'd like ballet slippers with my wings, please.
Nudist Colony Queens, Free of Wings 03.04.03

I have recently been told that my blogs focus a bit more on sports than they perhaps should. I understand this; I respect the opinions of my fellow blog-nerds and reading audience.

But I was thinking about this fact while tying my shoes for the fourth time this morning, bent over on a street, hoping no out of control cars would come careening for my glory-hole. What do I feel about this? Of course, on the surface is the first amendment right to free speech, saying whatever comes to mind-- so aptly glorified in the blog-world. But I am no constitutionalist.

And there is my extreme interest in trying to touch other people with what I love about sport-- the stories, the glory, the magic, the ethos, the good fortune, the bad luck, all on paper. While sometimes I feel I have approached success, and sometimes I have written bland recaps, I still have to say-- I am no athletic department booster.

There came the thought, this while I adjusted my body for another soul-searching shoelace-tying session, that diaries are an opportunity for us to stand naked before ourselves. Then, in turn, this blog-- a public diary-- is an opportunity for us to stand semi-nude to nude in front of friends and strangers who might ogle us from afar, who might admire our words and our lives, and might one day tell us they want to "fuck our minds" (again, thank you-- great compliment).

Isn't that what we want, all of us? Along with some body-fucking, of course. To be a little bit amazing. To be proud of our naked selves? To be able to express our naked selves? Even when we cover it up in parties and tales of our friends and our sightings, we are dutifully exposing a little bit of shoulder to view. Or a little more, in some cases. I won't uphold those statements as universally true and correct, I haven't done the research. But it comes down to this for me-- I am no nudist.

Which is a problem, in my mind. Not only when I want to flash famous people on 57th Street. But in general. I don't know anyone who is truly comfortable stripping down to nothing and standing in front of anyone else, in a non-sexual setting. Well, there are sports stars... but let's not get into that.

I certainly do not have that comfort level. This is still a shy Pico. And this means that Pico is unwilling or perhaps unable to expose himself in many facets. One of which is in the blog. Unfortunate. This means that the subject manner is reduced to sport, occassional social activities (please invite me to parties! Oh, pleeeease!), and the occasional political yammering. But... I am no nudist.

I love the fact that people are reading these musings, and I love reading about other people's lives. It's a thrill to entertain somebody in the course of their day. It's a thrill for them to think, momentarily, that I should write about sport or try to publish this cockamamie novel of mine, or that I am a riot or a trip and that I should never change being me. No matter how much I would like to strip down and find out who the hell me is, beyond sometimes wanting to be the Amusatron for a New Generation.

One day, maybe, when I become light and airy and have installed my wings software to operate my Hewlett-Packard wings-- I don't use Macs-- I will reveal a great many things. I would like to. Not for everyone else. For me. As an operation. As an attempt. To find out what I am so afraid of. To show a little shoulder, a little leg, and-- catch your breath for a second-- we'll take it from there.