Really?

I don't know. Maybe I need to watch it a few more times over the years before I pass judgement. I mean, it took awhile for Hudsucker Proxy to really work for me. But seriously? No Country for Old Men was the best picture this year? There had to be one better than that. I guess the speech at the end about the dream where the Sheriff's father goes on ahead and lights a fire in the cold and the dark, it was probably supposed to be meaningful and tie it all together. It seemed like a lot of pointless deaths to me. Did they decide the story would be for Llewelyn to strike Anton down and escape with the money, with the Sheriff maybe catching up with him and letting him go, letting the good guy get away with one to balance out all the times the bad guys get away? So they decided instead to make the anti-story? Or something? I don't get it. Somebody, please, make like Lucy and do some 'splainin'.

Ah, Kids

I worked two events today. For the first one, I guarded access to an off-limits area that no one tried to enter. I stood in a dusty, low traffic area with a cold breeze blowing down my neck for 4 1/2 hours. It kind of sucked, except for the one four- or five-year-old kid who was beyond thrilled to return my "Hook 'Em" sign when I flashed it at him. By the way, did you know that this sign proves that the entire Bush family are Satanists? Now you know.

For the second event I guarded a piece of equipment that I thought no one would try to touch. To my delight, near the end of the event, a nine- or ten-year-old boy touched it. I got to scare the crap out of him. Because of all the noise, he didn't hear me come up behind him. I didn't yell. I didn't threaten. I simply said, "Don't touch that, please." He jumped out of his skin. And he stopped touching it. And he didn't come back to touch it again. It was quite satisfying.

And Jason Dick was in my section. Pretty sure. He had a black wedding ring. Looked just like him, anyway. And two of the suit-wearing event sponsors came and shook his hand and asked him if the seats were okay. They don't usually do that for your average local pseudo-celebrity look-a-like, so it must've been him. And the black wedding ring. Who gets a black wedding ring? I'm not sure if I'll label this as a Brush with Greatness or not. I mean, he's a local radio D.J. That barely counts as famous, right? But he is drive time, you've got to give him that. And morning drive time. He doesn't exude greatness, though.

The best part of the evening was at the end of the night, when the fans were invited down onto the floor to get players' autographs and allow their children to run all over the place and throw footballs around and just generally wear themselves out before the car ride home. I saw Thumper out there on that floor. Thumper as he will look in about 3 1/2 years. His parents didn't look anything like the Mrs. and me, but he was the spittin' image. He was running, up and down, up and down, his still-toddler-chubby cheeks jiggling with the impact of each step. He was as perpendicular to the floor as a telephone pole. He took tiny steps. He pumped his arms furiously. And the way his brow was furrowed in concentration, I could tell he thought he was running faster than any human being had ever run before. I mean, he was practically airborn. I almost wept to see him. But then I snapped back into my black-shirted Security mindset and pretended to be stern.

Fantasy Band

suttonhoo wants to know what 5 musicians I'd want in my dream jam session. The two times I participated in Fantasy Football, I got my ass kicked, so I hope I fare better at Fantasy Band. But my bassist will probably do me like Terrell Owens and get suspended halfway through the season. Bastard.

Anyway, I smart-assed my way through my Twitter response, as I'm wont to do. I gave her this little gem:

Is it me or is the band getting bigger?
Okay.
On trumpet, Peter O'Toole! (just having a little rest between bars...)
On drums.....The Pope!
On baseline, Martina Nav, Nav... She should get married...
And on mic, the lovely....Cher!

Of course, everyone knows that's Max Headroom doing guest vocals on the 12" single of the Art of Noise's "Paranoimia." It's on the blue version of The Best of The Art of Noise. I think it's also on the pink version, but who cares? Screw the pink version. I mean, leaving off "Moments in Love" is a travesty. That's some bullshit right there. The pink version doesn't deserve to lick the blue version's boots.

Wait, what was I talking about again? Oh, yeah. My Fantasy Band. Well, OK, I'll pick my players, but I'm not tracking it through the season. It causes me too much stress, watching the stats and making substitutions, then finding out I should've kept my original musician because as soon as I bench him, he has a breakout session and... Ah, well. I'm bitter. Let's move on.

First, on bass: Flea. Or maybe John Norwood Fischer. Yes, definitely Fischer. He's slightly more obscure, and therefore cooler.

Next, on guitar, either David Gilmour, or the dude from Rage Against the Machine whose name I can't remember. They both have unmistakable styles that, even when they're playing on crappy solo projects or with that god-awful Chris Cornell, you can still tell it's them. No doubt. I guess I'll go with the Rage Against the Machine dude. He rocks out harder.

On drums, I guess it'd have to be Keith Moon. Or John Bonham. Probably John Bonham. Everybody knows the drummer is the coolest guy in the band, so you definitely need either the one who OD'd on the drug he was taking to help curtail his drinking or the one who drowned in his own boozy vomit. There's nothing cooler than a belligerent alcoholic.

On keyboards, either one of those Norwegian dudes from Röyksopp, because Melody A.M. is so cool, I don't even mind that "Remind Me" is a Geico caveman commercial.

For vocals, I'm not sure. I'm thinking M. Doughty, back before he became Mike Doughty, but I think it's just because he's been on my mind lately. Maybe James Hetfield. Maybe I'm torn between these two because I like singers who throw an extra syllable at the end of as many words as possible. I don't know. I'll get back to you on that one.

Unvoiced Bilabial Plosives

Twitter's kind of fun, but it's probably better for people who live beautiful, artistic, fascinating lives, like suttonhoo and martingruner. And for people who have text-friendly phones and text-friendly cellular plans. Does anyone want hour-by-hour snapshots into the life of a guy who spends much of his time in contemplation of the poop, the pee, and the puke? I ponder the color, the texture, the consistency, in all its variegated glory. For instance:

Was the cat pee on the carpet a dark enough orangey color to indicate possible blood in the urine and therefore yet another bladder infection?

How can the baby poop out neat little brown balls of clay that fall cleanly out of the diaper and into the toilet, and then a mere two hours later fill his diaper with a wet, sticky, multi-colored extravaganza that takes me fifteen minutes to clean up?

Could I have guessed a year-and-a-half ago, when Pops and I screened in the back deck, that the best part of the kitties spending so much time out there is that it catches most of the puke? Trex is much more stain-resistant than beige carpet.

Speaking of beige carpet, when I see that the boy's spit up somewhere because he has it on his chin and the front of his onesie, how is it that I can search and search and search for beige puke on a beige carpet without finding it, but a half-hour later when I walk barefoot across that same carpet, I'll unerringly step right in it?

Somehow it doesn't live up to suttonhoo's jet-setting, tours of the Field Museum and catching up with her friend in Singapore, or martingruner's bilingual cross-country skiing. I can only attempt to elevate my philosophical musings by using words like "unvoiced bilabial plosives."

I Could Do This All Day

I know this isn't very exciting, but blame suttonhoo. She selected me as her champion in a wpm joust with her friend martingruner.

Is it just me, or does martingruner look exactly like Daniel Faraday?

298 words

Speedtest

1255 points, so you achieved position 47 of 1361766 on the ranking list

You type 1621 characters per minute
You have 298 correct words and
you have 1 wrong words



That one wrong word is starting to bug me...

These Eyes

I've been trying to figure out what color the boy's eyes are. At first glance, under incandescent or compact flourescent bulbs, they appear to be blue. Not the same blue as mine, but a darker slate gray kind of blue. Until you take him outside in the sunlight or stick him under institutional flourescent tubes. Then a brownish core appears, still surrounded by the dark blue-gray.

This weekend, Pops said they were hazel, and I realized, as I have from time to time in my life, that I have no idea what that means. People say it, and I nod, but what the hell color is hazel, anyway? I would think it's some kind of brown, like hazelnuts. Oh, wait a minute. That's what hazelnuts look like? I thought those were filberts. Then what the hell are filberts? Oh. A filbert is a hazelnut is a filbert. Who knew? I guess filbert coffee wouldn't sell as well as hazelnut.

Wait, what was I talking about again? Oh, yeah. Hazel eyes. Hmmm. I guess they're a sort of greenish, brownish, amberish kind of color? That's not the boy. I guess I'll stick with blue. You know, if I have to fill out any forms or whatever. I don't think there's usually enough space to write, "Kind of bluish-gray, unless you're talking about in sunlight, in which case they have more of a brown core with a bluish-gray mantle."

Do you think I get extra points for metaphoring the boy's eyes into a cross-section of the earth and properly using the geological term "mantle?" To be honest, I looked it up. It's a good thing it's safe to rely on all information you find on the internet. It would take me days to write a post if I had to go to the library.

Sitting Bull

Thumper sat himself up today! I don't know how he did it, because I was... uh... Well, I was trying to beat Mrs. Rodius' score at Soda Pipes while he scooted around on the living room floor and played. There, I said it. I was playing Soda Pipes. But when I looked around, there he was, sitting up and smiling at me. On the hard tile of the entryway. Where if he'd fallen backwards, he would have cracked his skull and died. Because I wasn't watching. Lord, I'm a horrible father. But at least I have the bottom two scores on Arcade Mode now. Hee hee!

Gauntlet Thrown

Mrs. Rodius here. My darling husband sooo wanted me to take the typing test because he was CERTAIN I could not beat him. Alas, 'tis true.

IN MY DEFENSE:

I have a handicap here at home because we don't have a split keyboard like I do at work and that slows me down. These teeny keyboards are a pest in the butt. And so, I admit defeat.

ADMISSION:

My darling Rodius, you are faster than me even when I have a keyboard I'm comfortable with, and I'm OKAY with that. I'm not nearly as competitive as you are...at least when it comes to games, contests or sports. You ARE a speed demon. This is the best I can do:

91 words

Speed test

REALITY:

My IQ is still 2 points higher than yours and you have yet to beat my high score on Soda Pipes.

FRIENDLY REMINDER:

Speed isn't everything. There's something to be said for a slow, steady pace. Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink.

I Didn't Cheat!

223 words

Speedtest

Tracey seems to be implying that I cheated. Mrs. Rodius says I have a problem with competition. I say, "I win! Ha ha ha ha ha ha! 214 of 1,317,071!"

Yeah, Baby!

185 words

Speed test

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

Oh, sorry. I lost my head for a second there...

While Taking Thumper for a Walk

Freckles said, "I'm not saying you're my favorite uncle, just that Thumper's my favorite cousin."

Oh. OK.

Obama, Supplemental

On the local news today, I saw a story about veterans demonstrating to show support for the war. One of them said, "Our culture and way of life is threatening," when what he clearly meant was that it is "threatened." Kind of a funny Freudian slip. It's sad to think that it's probably more true the way he said it than the way he meant it.

Obama, Hey Bama, Bama Bama Bama Obama, Hey Bama, Obama

By the way, Mom, that's a reference to Jesus Christ Superstar.

Maybe Austin is starting to rub off on me. If you throw a dodge ball in the streets of Austin, you're far more likely to to clonk the noggin of an Obama or Clinton supporter than a McCain supporter. In all my years at my last job, all political conversations had that "nudge nudge, wink wink, we all know what an idiot Bush is" tone to them that left me feeling far right of center. So maybe the pressure is finally getting to me: I think I might vote for Obama if he wins his party's nomination.

Yesterday, suttonhoo linked to Obama's Philadelphia speech. I watched 31 minutes of it before Thumper decided I'd had enough time to myself. That 31 minutes was extraordinary, not only because I never watch that much undiluted political speech in a single sitting, but also because the speech itself affected me in ways I didn't at all expect.

Now, maybe a guy who spends his days folding and re-folding the same 24 diapers, crawling around on the floor and playing with brightly colored bits of plastic, and saying "Rowr!" as he chews on a baby's belly isn't the most qualified political commentator in the world. But what the hell, I get tired of talking about the baby all the time, anyway.

The driving principle of my political thought since perhaps 1995 or 1996 has been: a large, centralized Federal government that is looked to to provide all solutions to all problems can only do one thing effectively, and that's grow. So I have never voted for a Democrat since I voted for Bill Clinton in 1992 because the central message of all Democrat rhetoric is that the Federal government should be providing more solutions to more problems and should be spending more money on the problems it is already failing to solve.

The problem is that the Republicans don't really believe the opposite. Oh, they pretend to occasionally, when it suits their political purposes. But they're really only buying a different variety of political support with our tax dollars than their Democrat counterparts are. And in many cases, both sides are buying exactly the same political support.

That's the real turn-off to the political process: there is no honesty, there is no conviction. Every word uttered is calculated based on its political effect. Some, like Bill Clinton, may be better than others, like George Bush, but virtually no political office holder or seeker, at least on the national stage, speaks the truth simply because it's true. Certainly not Hillary Clinton. Her gameplan changes weekly, daily, based on what pollsters and pundits and political consultants determine what worked or did not last week, or yesterday. Nor McCain, or as Mrs. Rodius like to call him, Fire Marshall Bill.

But then I saw Obama's speech, and it seemed fundamentally different. I mean, yes, he's a poised speaker. His natural manner of speaking adds to the perception that he's speaking extemporaneously and from the heart. I'm sure that's at least partly from his skillful use of the teleprompter technology that's available to him, but still, he's not lecturing from on high with grand gestures and calculated pauses for applause. He's just speaking.

The content of the speech, though, was its most striking aspect. He spoke calmly and directly about subjects that it's common knowledge cannot be spoken of calmly and directly. Especially not directly. Political Calculus 101 teaches that Talking About Race = Risk of Offense. Risk of Offense = Risk of Political Fallout. Risk of Political Fallout = Potential Damage to Political Career. Damage to Political Career = Worst-Case Scenario. Therefore, Do Not Talk About Race.

Any other politician that I can think of would have tripped over his own feet racing to distance himself from the person who uttered the phrase, "God Bless America? God Damn America!" But Obama had the nerve to trust us to understand the complicated tangle of history out of which that phrase was shouted, and he talked to us, calmly and directly, about the complicated tangle itself. He knows, like any other public figure, that "complicated" doesn't fit into the kind of news reporting that carries his message to the broadest set of Americans, but he had the courage and the honesty to do it anyway.

So if Limiting the Scope of the Federal Government is a horse, and that horse left the barn a long, long time ago, maybe it's time for me to stop pretending that the Republican Party even remotely represents the kind of conservatism that I would prefer. Maybe it's time to stop pretending, too, that the President can or will accomplish all of the miracles that all of the candidates promise us when they're interviewing for the job. Maybe it's time to simply do the only thing I can do: vote for the candidate who succeeds in convincing me that he has integrity.

Where the Boys Were

It was a wild Spring Break for the Thumpster and me this week. We babysat his cousins for two full days, and Lord knows, time with the cousins always qualifies as a wild time.

Thumper's Seven-Year-Old Cousin lost a tooth the last time he was at our house. No, I didn't punch him in the mouth. How could you even joke about something like that? It was loose, and he pulled and twisted and poked it at while we ate lunch and I suggested various sudden and violent ways to remove it.

The next time I saw him, I asked if he put it under his pillow yet. He asked me if I knew that in Africa, they don't put them under pillows, because they don't have pillows there. And they don't get money. I didn't know that, and I wondered what they do get. Chickens, he informed me. They get chickens. I asked him if he'd rather have money, or a chicken. A chicken. Definitely.

So I mentioned that I know someone who has chickens. BFF has a piece of property in (what seems like to me) the boonies. It has no deed restrictions, and he keeps 21 chickens, 2 sheep, and a goat. I call it the Farm. I told Seven-Year-Old Nephew about the chickens. He wondered if BFF would sell him one.

So anyway, we went to the Farm this week. It was successful beyond all of my expectations. First, Thumper napped long and well. He sometimes has trouble napping at other people's houses, so the napping was greatly appreciated and made everything else that much easier and more pleasant.

Second, the niece and nephew... You know, I should give them appellations for this site that are shorter and more descriptive of them than Nine-Year-Old Niece and Seven-Year-Old Nephew. So I hereby dub Nine-Year-Old Niece "Freckles," and Seven-Year-Old Nephew "Robert McGee," for cryptic reasons known only to myself. No, I won't tell you why, unless you ask me in person.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Freckles and Robert McGee absolutely loved the Farm. At first, they spooked the chickens, and the chickens spooked them. But ultimately, they (what, harvested? Recovered? Picked?) nine eggs from 'neath a variety of chickens and washed them. They lamented that there weren't more to wash. BFF lamented that he'd already washed all the eggs from the day before. They fed and watered the chickens. And the sheep. And the goat that may or may not be pregnant by Immaculate Conception (the only males living on the Farm are BFF and his one rooster, yet she's as wide as a house and has developed udders). The asked every ten minutes or so if BFF thought the chickens had laid any more eggs yet. He felt sure there might be one or two more by the time we left. Then they lamented that there wasn't more work to do. So BFF, not quite believing his luck, suggested that they could shovel sand from one end of the property and wheelbarrow it to the other for a building project he's working on. They were delighted! So was he!

On the way home, Freckles pontificated about the limited appeal of manual chicken farm labor. "That was so much fun," she said. "I mean, just every once in awhile. I wouldn't want to do it every day. I don't really like work very much."

So BFF paid them for their labor by letting them pick out a dozen eggs each from his refrigerated stash. One included all of the eggs they had pulled from the coop themselves. In the end, Robert McGee never did get his chicken. Social Worker Sister-In-Law told me he could come home with a sheep, but not a chicken. She never provided the funds to make such a transfer of livestock happen, though, so I don't think she was very serious. But I have them again all day next Friday, so who knows? Maybe by then, he'll have talked her into it.

Oh, How Things Might Have Been Different

Speaking of Soul Coughing:

In the summer of 1996, Mrs. Rodius and I went to see Soul Coughing at the Hatch Shell on the Esplanade in Boston. We went because it was free, it was a beautiful day to be outside, some friends had invited us, and because we liked that song that was on the radio, that song that if you know any Soul Coughing at all, you know that song.

There were maybe fifty people lounging in the sun on the grass. It was fun. We didn't know the music. Most of it seemed too slow. It didn't really click with me as what I liked in the days when The Chemical Brothers were the coolest thing I'd ever heard.

After the show was over, our friends mentioned that they knew a couple of the guys in the band. They were going to go backstage, hang out with them, and probably smoke a fatty. Mrs. Rodius wasn't into that kind of thing, but I most definitely was. But the friends didn't think it would be cool for them to bring somebody else along. They were sorry. They hoped I'd understand.

Over the next few years, I learned to love Soul Coughing with a deep and abiding passion reserved for only a few bands, like Pink Floyd, Fishbone, and System of a Down. So now I can look back on that day as the day I almost got to hang out with M. Doughty. Of course, he's Mike Doughty now. He's cleaned up, and his music is much more Grey's Anatomy than Ruby Vroom. But oh, how would my life have changed if only I'd been able to smoke out with the man who wrote these immortal words:

Get onto the bus
That's gonna take you back to Beelzebub
Get onto the bus
That's gonna make you stop going rub a dub

Come On, Honey!

I just finished another 17-hour day ushering. My favorite part of the boys' high school basketball championships today: a raspy-voiced woman in my section was very vocal in her support for the Hornets, but when she worked the word "Hornets" through her sticky, sweet Southern accent, it came out honey. She was the perfect counterpoint to the lusty cries of her compatriots:

"De-FENSE!!"

"Come on, Honey!"

"Rebound! Aw, get the rebounds, now!"

"Let's go, Honey!"

"Call the foul, ref!"

"It's okay, Honey!"

She was very loving and supportive. What more could you want in a Booster?

My other favorite part: after the last game of the night, the friends and family of the winning team are usually loathe to leave the building. They linger. They take pictures. They chat. They take more pictures. But tonight, a Mexican Free-Tailed Bat dropped out of the rafters and made a few low passes over the crowd of loiterers. Suddenly, the crowd thinned precipitously. I think we ought to keep a couple of them there bats in cages for just such occasions. Swoop, swoop. My, is that the time?

I'd Like to Thank the Academy

Yesterday at lunch, I was awarded the "Good Dad Award" by the members of the Academy of Three Lawerish Ladies with Travel Books on Their Table at Koriente ("ATLLTBTTK"). First, I'd like to thank the members of the Academy. I'd also like to thank my beautiful wife, Mrs. Rodius; she really deserves all of the credit for bringing our perfect child into the world. I never could have done it without her. And special thanks to Big Brother for being late to lunch; it gave Thumper that little bit of extra time to flirt with the members of the Academy before they voted; that kind of lobbying never hurts. I think what really pushed me over the top, though, was asking the staff for hot water to warm the baby's bottle. When you get into the business, you never dream of winning accolades like this, but the recognition really means a lot. Thank you.

Oh No, No, No, I Don't Want To

Thumper has started vocalizing much more this week. He says "Ma ma ma, ba ba ba, na na na, wa wa wa" in a voice that's most adorably hoarse from all of the coughing he's still doing. His eyes are much better, and he's not stuffed up anymore, but he just can't seem to shake the cough.

So of course, since he's saying "ma ma ma," I'm trying to get him to say Daddy. He stares intently at my mouth, but then he gets the biggest, dopiest grin on his face, lowers his head, and shakes it vigorously back and forth. I swear I don't know where this kid gets his cuteness reserves. If I had a video camera, I'd record it for you, but since I don't, you'll just have to look here to get the full effect.

Having Done His Civic Duty

Thumper voted today. He won't tell me who he voted for, though. He says the secrecy of the ballot is a fundamental Constitutional right. I told him that while the Constitution establishes the Electoral process, it leaves the specifics of individual citizens voting up to the States. He just grinned at me. He doesn't think that could possibly be true.

Kickin' It Old School

Thumper and I went toy shopping Sunday. Retail toy shopping, even. Since cheapness counts, we only went retail because we had a $50 KB Toy gift card, and we went to the one in the Round Rock Outlet Mall. Even after shopping, we've still got half our $50 left on the card, so we can go do it again some day! Since he's stuck home alone with his old man all the time, he loves being out among other people, so he thoroughly enjoyed walking through the outdoor mall. He flirts with the ladies and stares like a stalker at other babies. He was on sensory overload in the store, and probably increased the length of his arms by a half inch or so stretching out to reach that one! No, that one! I! Must! Have! That one! His eyes were open so wide I'm surprised the conjunctivitis germs didn't just fall right out for lack of anything to hold on to.

Since I'm a curmudgeon, I didn't want to get him anything with corporate characters. He doesn't need to become an Official Disney Consumer just yet. And when Sesame Street Live! was in town, several people said to me, "So I guess you'll be bringing your little one next year!" I responded that if he never found out there was any such thing as an Elmo, I'd be a happy man. I know; good luck with that, right? Well, so far, anyway...

I also didn't want anything that required batteries for flashing lights and repetitive songs that leave Mrs. Rodius walking through the office singing, "Would you like some cookies? Here they are. Five different shapes in my cookie jar! You can take them out; you can put them back. Five little cookies make a yummy snack!"

So we kicked it old school. We're rollin' low tech. We went back to the Brilliant Basics™. First, we (and by we, I mean I; he would've picked out a dozen more stuffed animals if I'd left it up to him, and he's already got an army of them in his room that get up to who-knows-what in there at night) picked out Rock-a-Stack®. Shaking the "swirling beads," Mrs. Rodius pointed out that "When I was a kid, we didn't have this." I guess she's got a little curmudgeon in her, too: "When I was a kid, we didn't have no fancy 'swirling beads.' We didn't need swirlin'. We had plain, solid, primary colors, and we liked it that way!"

Then we decided on the Snap-Lock® Beads, another classic. The shapes have been updated since the '70's, but still, generations of foster kids chewed on these things at my house when I was a boy.

Then I saw the pièce de résistance. I was sure this would be the one he'd be scooting all over the floor with: the Bead Ball. What baby wouldn't like that, with the stuff, and the moving, and the rattling around?

Well, of course he doesn't give a rat's ass about the Bead Ball. And he'll poke at the snap-lock beads with his two little teeth for a minute or so before he loses interest. He'll play with the rock-a-stack a little longer, but once he gets all of the rings off the post, he figures he's won the game and starts looking around for that damn cookie jar again.

These kids today! They don't appreciate the classics! Beh!

Mine Doesn't Wink

I dreamt last night that I was delivering babies. Well, I wasn't so much delivering them as catching them as they fell. As soon as I got the goo wiped off, I had to turn around to catch the next one. I was getting behind, so I shoved one into my desk drawer thinking that when I caught up, I'd come back and clean that one. I forgot about it, though, and when I remembered in a panic that it was still there, I was sure that it would be dead. It wasn't. When I opened the drawer, it looked calmly at me. Then its already-formed belly button winked at me.

Return of the Contagious Conjunctivitis

This time, it's personal...

Uh...

I woke up at 4:45 this morning to be at work by 6:15 this morning to work until 11:30 this evening. I'm tired. But if I go to bed, I'll dream restless dreams about walking endless stairs to direct poor, elderly, crippled people to seats that don't exist, and who needs that after living the dream for 17 hours?

So I'm staying awake a little while longer. But I have nothing to say. I finished The Time Traveler's Wife, so I should write a review that's more thoughtful than the "I love, love, love it" that I already submitted. But I ain't got it in me tonight. So I'm seeking submissions.

I need new additions to my blog roll thingie. I like what I got over there, but I need more. I like to read blogs. I like funny. I like intelligent. I'm not so much into religious. Maybe some male voices, since I got feminine wiles out the wazoo on that blog role thingie already.

You know me. If you had to suggest one good blog that you think I'd like, what would it be?

OK, maybe I should go to bed.