Sea Dog's round of Raps in this Garrison blog Salvo.

We have blogs on girl-talk, and wine-talk. Both are inexcusable. Both are rubbish. I can only chastise the blog about girl-talk, because I myself spent a hot afternoon drinking cocktails and listening riveted to the i-pod as "the night ripper" caromed against its own ADD inspired maze of pop-song nostalgia rock-techno. I got my co-worker way too drunk, she cried at work and her father picked her up and drove her to her childhood home for recovery. I think all went well, but it was a difficult day for her. I've yet to hear this new one, and I fear for how much I will enjoy it. I'm glad I'm desperately lost in love for a woman, or while enjoying it, I'd doubt my own heterosexuality.



ENOUGH about other petty fools' blogs!

I awoke this morning to find myself the victim of a peculiar brand of shame. It was several minutes after four in the afternoon, and I had imbibed various alcoholic beverages for the bulk of the previous day. This immediately stung me with a throbbing anxiety and torturous regret. However, this lasted for mere moments, as it was replaced with a more brutal and telling sorrow: the regret of the knowledge that I can no longer drink all one day and sleep all the next and revel in this power! Instead of acknowledging this gift for the blessing that it is, I now look upon it with scorn! As if this power were not some righteous divinity, but rather a mortal weakness! How my perceptions have changed. At least I didn't melt an ice-cream sandwich all over my shirt and shorts (and head, hands, arms, head, and front porch now that I picture the dilemma with the clarity of the sober cobra) like the other guy. Then I would really feel a fool.

I possess a restless soul. There is always something un-nameable that I feel I ought to do. There is some phantom chore that plagues my sense of duty and conquers my acceptance of the right to relax. I fear that this is the curse of some scourge that may corrupt the entire course of my life. I fear that this malady is called... adulthood. May the gods have mercy upon my soul...

I haven't even gotten comic books this week... what is wrong with me!? What have I become!?

For those devoid of imagination, imagine that I spoke this blog as a monologue, my clothes tattered, remnants of rusted, giant chain links manacled to my wrists. I cannot stand, my knees are in the mud, my eyes are to the heavens, it is the darkest of nights, and as I shout, "What have I become!?" a giant vein of lightning pierces the sky, splitting the eternal blackness in two.


In other news, I am going to go to Roscoe's Chicken & Waffles. I'm going to hold off on waffles, I don't feel I have to make the restaurant live up to its namesake every time I go. Nor would I expect apples and bees, every time I go to the eatery which derives its name from those two things. No, I think Roscoe just named his fine locations that as merely an offer, or perhaps a promise. Waffles, are good, but easily done. Chicken is a fine delicacy, and perhaps because of its mistaken simplicity it is not always taken seriously enough. So, I will focus on the chicken. It will be good.

I am going to try a place famous for its burritos here in the valley. Can I help myself for being nothing but skeptical? A review online calls it "BUSY BUSY BUSY" while its ingredients are "fresh fresh fresh" and overall it is "inexpensive." These clues lead me to two distinct possibilities. 1) it is delicious like los pinos. 2) it is trendy like tacos moreno and therefore completely overrated and impossible to deal with due to hordes of drones lined up for miles because of some review they saw in the Good Times. We'll see.

So I blogged about food, get off my f*#*ing back all ready!