Just What I Need Right Now: A Sweater

God, I fucking love the Dead Kennedys.

I Think My Calendar Is Misprinted. Says Today Is March 21.

I used to be the worst kind of party guest. (And maybe I still am; I don't go to many parties these days.) I was Last Call Guy. I was Lionel Richie—all night looong. I was the Viagra boner of every party: up all night, even after most everyone else had had all the fun they wanted.

Almost invariably, be it Oscar party, Fourth of July barbecue, an art gallery fête, book release gala, charity ball, or cocktail hour after work, I would close the place down. When the other guests were collecting their coats and saying their goodbyes, I'd still be going strong. Later, with my hosts in pajamas and shooting icy get-him-out-of-here looks at each other, I was opening a fresh bottle of wine. I swear one time I made it all the way to breakfast the next morning, sharing the table with two tots excited about their field trip to the zoo and wondering where the guy with the stubble came from and what that sound like grinding teeth was.

I didn't think much at the time about being such an imposing, mooching douche. Still don't. In fact, to this day, I find it difficult to empathize with my hosts, all the people I'd been an irritating asshole to; people kind enough to put up with me long after I'd overstayed my welcome. I'm sorry, I just can't.

Now, if you'll excuse me. I have to go shovel my walk for the 30th time this year.

Bryce Drew Must be Spinning in His Grave

Oh, this is horseshit.

All I want to do is eat my lunch at my desk and peek in at some of the first round games going on right now. But does CBS Sportsline make it easy for me to point my Mac a their little broadcast? Nay. And does my IT guy make it easy to download and install whatever juryrigged version of Windows Media Player I need to do so? Nay.

Out of the question is taking a long lunch at the bar around the corner. I barely like college basketball and I can't stand the office "braketologists" with their rolled-up sleeves, Dockers, and game analysis cribbed from Doug Gottlieb. So yeah, no, I won't be taking in an games on a sprts bar big screen. I'll just sit here, munching my bagel, and refreshing the stupid ESPN site.

Overheard on the Bus this Morning

"I love salt. It's my favorite thing to eat. But on food? Uh uhn."

Wish Three: Heidi. A giant cake. Lots of poppin'.

Finally sat down last night and watched my pirated copy of Helvetica. Loved it. Not because it was particularly revealing or educational. (It was neither.) Not because I get off on geeky fontsnark. (I don't. But nor do I especially relish being a de facto defender of Times New Roman et. al in the face of attacks from overcaffeinated font snobs who've never meet a grunge typeface they didn't like and use.) No, I liked Helvetica for the same reason I like most documentaries: Creative people doing what they do, talking shop, critiquing, fawning, and generally geeking out in a very matter-of-fact, this-is-just-what-I-do way is infinitely fascinating to me. The Ray Johnson and Henry Darger docs I've enjoyed are more biopic-y than Helvetica but they share these elements. Ditto for Project Runway. Though, if I had one wish with that show, it'd be to see more sketching and sewing and less elimination tedium. (With a second wish I'd ask for more model drama and no more kwazy materials challenges. Just use fabric, and just sew dresses. Simple.)

If you're not up for 90 minutes of ligature and x-height talk, I can also recommend Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. The story was only meh, but it was so sharp and snappy... Good stuff.

Blogthreat! Take That, Giant, Faceless Corporation!

So, yes, as you might have read, I got robbed last weekend. Classic B&E. Crowbar to the door and the deadbolt never stood a chance. Near as I can figure, the thief was only in a house a short while, took what he could grab quickly, and split. (And he was, according to Sweetpea, a he. Short-ish, balding, ruddy. Psychic Cindy sees it all.)

I've heard it's common for victims of robberies to feel violated knowing that a stranger was in their house, rifling through their possessions, and making off with the best of it. Perhaps strangely, I'm not getting that feeling. Sure, I mind that someone pried my door off its hinges and ransacked my home, depleting it of its valuables the way a piranha devours the flesh of a dead and waterlogged antelope. Of course I mind that. I'm not at all comfortable with that. But I can sleep at night. My bed is still my bed. I don't get any heebie-jeebies on the back steps or in the bedroom closet where dude did most of his raiding. No, what's really putting the pit in my stomach as I walk through my house, now days after the burglary, inventorying for the insurance company all the things that used to be there and that I'm asking them to replace, is how bad I'm going to get robbed again. Ball's in your court, State Farm. Don't let me down.