I have a friend who regularly eats his woman's discarded toenail clippings as a mating ritual - this he does in protest against Ludwig Wittgenstein's protests against Sir James Frazer. You can connect the dots yourself. You know, or you should know, that evolution is optimized by the maximum number of mistakes consistent with survival.

There are urgent matters percolating in my... in my... well, in my percolator. The worst of these is that I have become a late merger. I hate it - it gives me great guilt - and everyone honks and gives the finger - but I've made the commitment to become a late merger. Don't hate me - love me. At least I've made the conscious, premeditated decision. I'm not an improvisational shitgun. For what it's worth.

I've also taken to dancing in my car at red lights, keeping my eyes fixated on points in front of me. Of course, it isn't really dancing as it's all from the waist up, but I've perfected spastic arm waving, head weaving, and distorted facial expressions. One time I even got a pretty girl to throw down some moves herself, from her car, but as you may have surmised by now that is not the principal reaction.
Fun doesn't grow on trees like it used to.

In the center of my bald forehead I have this single annoying hair that grows in faster and stronger than all the others. Every two days I wake up looking like a unicorn. It could be worse, right? I could have to get up and put paint on my face every day like a female. We have all our crosses to bear. Who said that, Gregg Allman?


In abandoning all pretense of sanity in order to master the films of Cassavetes I've taken to wearing shirts with ill fitting cuffs, like Ben Gazzara in the Chinese bookie movie. You didn't know that has some kind of direct line to Pierce, James and Dewey, did you? Scholars do - how come you don't? Pragmatism and the truth!!

The truth of dancing in the car.