Urge to Make Fishstick Joke Rising

I make things for a living — pretty things, hot things, things that make other things better — but all these things I make are for other people. I don't often get the chance to make stuff for myself. That's why sitting down tonight with my scissors, spray glue, and stack of cardstock was so fun. It felt great to do something just for me, and to do it with paper, not pixels.

Art Night coincided with the republican debate on CNN, and since Sweetpea's been hinting that I need to get a little more politically aware, I tuned in. The verdict, taking into account I know only a minuscule amount of these men's policies and platforms and am only basing this on the hour or so of the debate tonight that I watched:

Mike Huckabee: Greasy twat. Whiny and shrill. Not nearly as bright or clever as he thinks he is. (Obviously, this is the guy who will be sitting in the White House come next February.)
Mitt Romney: Smarmy ass. Perfectly coifed and coached, but ultimately a shallow blowhard. Still he looked like the greatest orator who ever lived compared to...
John McCain: Wasn't this guy Washington gold only a few years ago? What happened? Tonight he looked confused and disheveled. Holmes' idea of spitting hot fire consisted mostly of stuttering and blubbering his way through his notes of misquotes and irrelevant timelines. Pathetic.
Ron Paul: My favorite showing of the evening. I liked RP's air of down-home flippancy, liked that he called bullshit on his bickering opponents, and I loved that he took what he was given by Anderson Cooper and didn't come off as desperate or cloying. Again, I know nothing of the man's politics, and he could lose me in a second, but tonight I thought the guy was cool.

K, that's enough grownup shit. Imma go mix up a Nestles strawberry milk and play a little Fight Night before I head to bed.

George Herbert Would Think Colin Meloy's Turned Into A Douche, Too

Sure, living well is the best revenge. Obvs. But what if you've got no axe to grind? What then of living well? I'd hate to think that my lazy week off, my new forch job, fancy OJ carafe, and upgrade to CS3 are all for naught.

I updated MBD this evening, adding a screengrab of my dearly departed music snark site, Booze Is My Momma. I'd forgotten how fun it was writing that trash, back in the halcyon days of 2006 when I was a rowdy pup who could stay out past 9 p.m. and didn't mind the long trek up Clark to Metro. Ah well, I can't exactly complain about my Santori Times these days, can I?

Naw, My Aunt's a Waxer

Given the right diet of Coca-Cola and Jubliee chicken sandwiches, I can cultivate quite the facial thicket over a typical two-week deadline period. And when I say thicket, I mean a nappy, scraggly, itchy mess. It's the worst hipster beard you've ever seen. That Sweetpea hates it, and I really only like it in theory.

So, this morning, with a, er, dentist appointment highlighted blue on the iCal, I shaved it all off. My sink looks like your aunt's crotch, and I barely recognize my face (handsome, it turns out), but taking blade to beard was the right call. The, uh, dentist appointment went well — real well — and with any luck, I'll be back in that chair in a week or so.

*****

What else? Well, I finally finished the new Guth-a-Go-Go. None too soon, either, as tons of peeps in the coming months are going to be looking up the brain behind the Pilcrow Lit Fest, her en-progrès second novel, and, by my count, five more super secret projects she's promised to reveal in due time.

A 75-hour work week is lunacy. I know this. But, still, like a dumbass, I logged one last week.

Using temps, part-timers, and a batch of my homemade trucker speed, I put together our February issues — 384 pages, give or take — in five days. Except for Friday, there wasn't a single instance all week when I left for work and returned home the same day. I ate lunch at my desk, dinner at my desk, and watched the 5:00, 6:00 and 10:35 Simpsons every day. (Or at least parts of them; they were some real horseshit episodes that usually got clicked off quickly. Sideshow Bob in Italy. Lisa tap dancing. Mr. Burns trapped in a cave with that hothead Texan... Oy.)

Needless to say, I'm wiped. I spent the weekend sleeping and avoiding computer screens, and I'm feeling a little better, but the ol' brain is still a little soggy.

*****

Possibly related: I can't park anymore. At all. I was never a stellar parallel parker, but I could usually swing my rig into place without much trouble. Not anymore. I've completely lost it. I haven't parked once in the last two weeks without having to take several stabs at the job and getting super pissed and frustrated in the process. Dunno what the deal is or how to get my mojo back, but it's fucking emasculating.

Not Dead, Just Bored to Death with Blogging

How long did that last, five weeks? Bleh. I don't know how you all keep up with your blogs and Twitters and Facebooks and whatnot.

After going 4-0 in the wildcard round, half my picks lost this weekend. I took a bath. Small consolation: At least there's no chance of the Dimple Bowl between stupid Tom Brady and stupid Tony Romo. TTFC. A friend of mine met the woman who eventually became his wife in a laundromat when he brownout'd the GB/NE Super Bowl a decade ago. If the Cowboys and Patriots played this year's game, I'd have been at that same laundromat with some bling, a partially filled-in marriage license, and two tickets to Vegas. Damn, the NFL sucked this year. 'Cept for Purple Jesus:

So Next Year, I'll Have Mimosas for Breakfast, Beer with Lunch, and Cocktail Hour Will Begin at 3 p.m.

Final standings of the Second Annual Wolta Christmas Madden Throwdown: Justin defeats Eric, seven games to six. A squeaker of a victory for me, due largely to my undefeated record in games played after 11 p.m. when the grandparents went to bed and the booze started flowing.