Friday Night Live-Blogging.


Stay alert, comrades.  The night is young.

So, as some of you know, I haven’t exactly been in tip-top condition lately. Physically speaking, I’m the sort of car wreck that Ted Kennedy would’ve really appreciated back in his heyday. Hell, maybe even more so now, who knows. 

But, then, a diet of takeout food, energy drinks, chocolate chip cookies and random blood pollutants will do that to you.  Mix in extreme lack of sleep, obsessive overworking and a vicious chest cold that’s giving me the sort of coughing fits than can burst blood vessels in your brain and you have the perfect storm of bodily debilitation.  No doubt, this organic shell I currently occupy is in some damn rough shape.

Anyway, I never claimed to be a Tour de France champion, did I?  Fuck, one day trying to live like I do would make Lance Armstrong chop off his other ball in flat out surrender. True, I covered it once but only for two days because after they caught me and Forrest Whitaker ransacking the meds box in the back of one of the paramedics vans, they revoked my press pass.

But that’s why you like me, isn’t it?  Because of my amusing flaws?

To quote Pete Fijalkowski:

Oh slow down,
Take a good look at me.
As they cut me,
From this body.
Oh, my car crash,
Has come,
To town.

Sure, I get run down sometimes.  Beat up.  Get all wrapped up in various little whirlwind ideas and the next thing you know I’ve neglected myself right into a biological abyss of sorts.  I forget that the body needs attention, too.  Thankfully, The Valkyries, my leggy, all-female security militia, are always here to remind me of that fact.  One or two of them can even cook, too.

The cough medicine I’m using tonight is absolutley great, by the way.  Three and a half bottles in and I feel completely fucking fantastic



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