Monday, December 12, 2005


I swear, if I'm woken up by one more baby bird almost-catastrophe (Philippe), or whiskey yelling (Lyle, Chris, et al), or loud David Lean biopic (Cornelius), or 6:20am nail-clattering in the kitchen (Olive, the damned dachshund, prancing around antsily for breakfast), or Calvados yelling (Cornelius, Chris, Ray) I'm going to put a shine on this place and find an apartment downtown. It's like living in the Tower of Retard Babel around here, waking up to hear Lyle yelling "NO, MAN, FORGET WHAT YOU KNOW ABOUT MEDIA-DELIVERED GOVERNMENT. THAT'S ALL JUST COLA WARS -- EVERYBODY WINS. THE REAL POWER IS HELD OUT-OF-CIRCUIT BY A MUDDHIST IRISH MASONIC CLECT BASED IN SNAHOMISH, WISCONSIN..."

I just want some damn sleep. I usually go down around two or three, after I've played a bit and scribbled down some tablature and recipe ideas. Lately I've been woken up about every half hour from six on, as the house stirs into life and people start getting into fights or misusing volume-regulating technology. I'd get earplugs, but I'm paranoid about sleeping through a life-ending fire. I know I'd probably wake up as the flames started to lick at my hide, but ideally I'd have a few minutes first to make sure my high school yearbook had been properly set atop a small pyre of old socks.