tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54998882011-04-21T20:04:40.130-05:00nobody move, nobody get hurt.briantologistnoreply@blogger.comBlogger1041100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1079200116910897532004-03-13T11:41:00.000-06:002004-03-13T11:50:55.610-06:00

Biggish little news. Gregger finally convinced me to drop fitty bucks on some server space, and so Darleece and I have now officially moved our blogging activities to www.byrneunit.com. I managed to clumsily cut and paste a decent number of the former comments from my crappy comments service here. They ain't pretty, but they're there. In closing, thanks, Blogger, for making blogs free. But you

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1078965181471061582004-03-10T18:32:00.000-06:002004-03-10T18:35:17.653-06:00

I'm nowhere near as dedicated to home maintenance as I am to, say, "America's Next Top Model." I was a lot more upset when I found out last night's episode was a fucking clip show than I was when I noticed that half our shrubs were dead, and that no less than eight inches of leaves covered portions of our lawn. Something struck me this weekend, though, and before I knew what was happening, I'd

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1078536926221249262004-03-05T19:35:00.000-06:002004-03-05T19:37:37.560-06:00

The exciting thing about reality TV right now is that not is it constantly getting dumber, at this point nobody's sure when it'll bottom out -- or even if it'll bottom out. For one, there's this bizarro anecdote about some girl on "Average Joe" whose surprise ex-boyfriend ends up being a certain man-tittied margarine spokesmodel. There's the fucked-up conclusion to the continuing fucked uppedness

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1078274410086251902004-03-02T18:39:00.000-06:002004-03-02T18:42:18.153-06:00

A quick Google search reveals that technically I have not, in fact, experienced The Long Dark Night Of The Soul (though I do seem to experience quite a few of the symptoms on at least a weekly basis). However, after my Saturday night, I can say with confidence that I have now experienced The Long Dark Night Of The Gastrointestinal Tract. I won't go into too much detail, except to say that the

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1077668558685924542004-02-24T18:22:00.000-06:002004-02-24T18:24:40.000-06:00

Manomanoman, have I ever got the "The Wife and I Get Paid Monthly and We're Both Broke-Ass Briggity Broke Broke" blues. It's nothing like the lonesome lovesick blues, in that it actually requires that you not be very lonesome (cuzza the wife part) and at least not lovesick enough to still be married (see the aforementioned wife part). Here's how broke I am: When I got off work and went to the

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1077414932637062972004-02-21T19:47:00.000-06:002004-02-21T19:57:31.123-06:00

It's come to my attention that my bosom chum The Cheat has a problem with Owen Wilson. Max Power called from their mutual workplace and angrily demanded I explain why The Cheat is patently wrong in his dislike of Mr. Wilson. I can understand his confusion, as I can't for the life of me figure out how anybody, much less someone as high-quality as The Cheat, could not like Owen Wilson. We talked

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1077117576250182252004-02-18T09:19:00.000-06:002004-02-18T09:22:03.670-06:00

Reason number two hundred and thirteen why it's good I'm married to Darleece: She reminds me that artists other than Tom Petty are still producing music, now that Johnny Cash is gone. I'm not saying I tend toward musical complacency, but left to my own devices, I'm fairly certain I'd devolve into one of those greasy guys you see at flea markets wearing filthy velour track jackets haggling over

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1076781459143157112004-02-14T11:57:00.000-06:002004-02-14T11:59:55.170-06:00

Every time I hear the first two notes of that Norah Jones song, the hit from her first album, I immediately think of the first two notes of "King of the Road" by Roger Miller. At which point I immediately begin wishing I were listening to "King of the Road," by Roger Miller. All of which is to say that, for me, Norah Jones has come to embody my disappointment about not listening to Roger Miller

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1076510253541478482004-02-11T08:37:00.000-06:002004-02-11T08:39:21.200-06:00

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine from the newspaper where I used to work asked me to be a presenter at a seminar on press releases. Since I've managed to work in the media for several years now without ever having come within 400 yards of having to write a press release, I decided I'd be best off spending my time berating people's bad punctuation, which is one of the things I do best. (It's a

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1076258335747567532004-02-08T10:38:00.000-06:002004-02-08T10:40:40.576-06:00

So apparently the notion of tattoos being addictive isn't utter hogwash, because ever since I got one on my left forearm, my right paw-holder has been feeling a wee bit nude. Apparently this means there'll be a field trip to *Fayetteville sometime soon. The problem is, I'm not clear on what to get on there. It's gonna be on the inside of my right forearm, ole-man style, which halfway makes me

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1076118284002188172004-02-06T19:44:00.000-06:002004-02-06T19:46:26.983-06:00

For the life of me, I couldn't tell you why it's taken me this long to download "You Could Be Mine" and finish destroying my hearing with it. Rest assured, the situation has been remedied. And this song rocks so hard I'm gonna run out and beat the fuck out of the first person I see the second it's over.

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1075959289620834472004-02-04T23:34:00.000-06:002004-02-04T23:36:30.873-06:00

Our marvelous, fertile season of reality TV continues. Last night we were treated to the song stylings of ... I don't know. Some fucking bunch of morons on "American Idol." It wasn't nearly as gratifying as the first rounds of auditions were, but at this point the show's got its hooks in me pretty deep, and so the second auditions are essentially TV methadone. It's sort of the same, but it leaves

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1075785585860664402004-02-02T23:19:00.000-06:002004-02-02T23:21:25.326-06:00

So I've never really thought of myself as all that resourceful a person. Or all that handy. My on-the-spot problem-solving abilities peaked the time I found a coffee filter to blow my nose on when no kleenex were available. Ah, but that was before my jaunt to Oklahoma City yesterday, when, at the toll plaza of the Turner Turnpike ("Straight and flat, just like your sad little life!" -- the

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1075570016978502712004-01-31T11:26:00.000-06:002004-01-31T11:28:33.840-06:00

This has not been, shall we say, a good week for me. It's mainly just been a matter of me feeling cataclysmically awful, rather than actual bad things happening. Often regular bad things put on bulky overcoats and stand around my bed masquerading as much worse things than they actually are. Still, every time I fall for it. It's remarkable, really. That said, this week is over, and after today,

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1075129649458352552004-01-26T09:07:00.000-06:002004-01-26T09:09:01.513-06:00

Ah, the Golden Globes. Like the Oscars only drunker, they're our chance to see celebrities get their lean on, and the Hollywood Foreign Press's chance to get their say. All six members of the Hollywood Foreign Press. Oh, there were highlights. Mainly Antonio Banderas talking about being "a young mang in Spaing." "Now I am married to de Melanie Griffith, and okay okay, yes, she's maybe no Meryl

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1074652295711878112004-01-20T20:31:00.000-06:002004-01-20T20:33:02.060-06:00

Okay, so in my continuing team coverage of this season of crap TV, I just got done watching a life-affirming hour of "American Idol." Among the spectacularly bad entrants was one guy who ended up weeping to himself in the lobby. Weeping to himself and to some eight million viewers at home, anyway. These were more or less his exact words: "I blew it." Allow me to tell you what's wrong with this

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1074611045478958502004-01-20T09:03:00.000-06:002004-01-20T09:05:31.606-06:00

I've been so inundated with awesome crap TV these days that I haven't had time to post. Well, that and hooch. Inundated with crap TV and hooch. Where to begin? Oh, how 'bout the spanking new season of "America's Next Top Model?" There's a surplus of stoked in this household these days. This new bit promises to be every bit as crappy as the first season was, as already we've had the fool who

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1074198469697820592004-01-15T14:27:00.000-06:002004-01-15T14:29:10.793-06:00

So with a gift certificate I got for XXX-mas, I bought a few CDs at Borders last week, and am now getting around to listening to them in the car. This takes a while, as since I live about four minutes away from work, I don't end up getting a lot of listening done while driving. Though on the plus side, everywhere I need to go is about one song away, which, if you time it right, can make for a

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1074108967716877662004-01-14T13:35:00.000-06:002004-01-14T13:38:06.920-06:00

Which Survivor of the Impending Nuclear Apocalypse Are You?A Rum and Monkey joint. Take the quiz. Find out. Enrich yourself. Write in stupid two-word declarative sentences.

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1074045020623387282004-01-13T19:48:00.000-06:002004-01-13T19:51:39.670-06:00

Man, since I figured out how to put pictures on here, it's practically all I want to do. Here's one I've wanted to post for a long time. It's emblematic of all the best parts of my relationship with my dear wife. Enjoy.

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1074032389660128942004-01-13T16:17:00.000-06:002004-01-13T16:22:40.343-06:00

Okay, so here's the deal: I make these every day and e-mail them to whoever wants to read them, which I determine mostly by waiting for people to tell me they'd like to get them every day. I'd post them on the web, but legally it's risky territory. Which is why I'm not mentioning the comic strip I'm altering here by name, and assuming you recognize it. So anyway, I'd be happy to send them to you

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1073963888038494882004-01-12T21:16:00.000-06:002004-01-12T21:19:26.670-06:00

... To cobble together a faux FTP service. I now bring you ... actual pictures. Kitten pictures, the best kind. God damn, we love this kitten.

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1073688470309092172004-01-09T16:47:00.000-06:002004-01-09T19:26:46.140-06:00

One of my favorite cultural bitching points is the utter retarditude of baby naming these days. There seem to be two schools of baby naming in use. 1) -- Name your kid after a pattern in the Laura Ashley catalog, or 2) -- Pull a word out of your ass that ends in the syllable sound -en. Seriously, it's getting really awful out there. It's making me long for names like Gertrude, Hilda, Medreth and

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1073452122412378162004-01-06T23:08:00.000-06:002004-01-06T23:24:39.903-06:00

So I'm reading "On Writing," by Stephen King. Shut up, you snobs. Yeah, he's not Faulkner, but have you read any Faulkner lately? If I picked up a book by both guys, I know which one I'd at least finish. My mom got me the book for XXX-Mas. I'd kind of been wanting to pick up a copy since it came out, like three years ago, but I hesitated, for fear of disapproval by you, nameless snob. Damn your

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1073202274433501122004-01-04T01:43:00.000-06:002004-01-04T01:45:43.873-06:00

So I got involved in a comments-box discussion on the blog of one Mr. Scott Chinn, a thoughtful guy who did my job at our fair radio station before wising up and moving to New York. This post got me thinking about why I enjoy "Rich Girls" on MTV so much, but can't bring myself to watch "The Simple Life" on Fox. Y'know, I tried a couple of times to watch "Simple Life," and a couple of things kept

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1072980156453627562004-01-01T12:02:00.000-06:002004-01-01T12:03:43.936-06:00

Now that 2003's gone, finally we can start talking shit about it. (At whopping length; be warned.) Looking back on a lot of the crap that's happened this year, it's kind of easy for me to feel terrible about a lot of stuff. Then again, it's generally easy for me to feel terrible about things, so I'm probably not the one you should be asking for a balanced opinion. Bad shit that happened this

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1072813326918706072003-12-30T13:41:00.000-06:002003-12-30T13:46:14.153-06:00

So right now, on two separate pay cable networks, are two movies with some striking similarities: "No Man's Land" and "Catch Me If You Can." To address the first parallel between the films, neither film is the one you think it is. "No Man's Land" is not the highly acclaimed wartime drama about the Bosnia-Herzegovina conflict, and "Catch Me If You Can" is not the sorta decent adaptation of Frank

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1072514379883117832003-12-27T02:39:00.000-06:002003-12-27T02:42:02.593-06:00

As Darleece and I were gorging ourselves on spring rolls tonight, bitching about how stupid it is when people think it's impossible to be a moral person without religion, it occurred to us that our dear friends Max Power and Chesty LaRue are getting married tomorrow. Up until now their impending nuptials have existed mostly in theory, and as a convenient device for irritating Max ("Hey, did you

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1072342000767502982003-12-25T02:46:00.000-06:002003-12-25T02:47:40.513-06:00

Pretty much nobody's awake right now, two hours and twenty minutes into Christmas 2003. They're not missing a whole lot. Some people came home from bars, hugged old friends, and got warm fuzzies about said old friends. Some people might be influenced by a few beers, a pound of pasta, and a generally poor sleep schedule into referring to themselves as "some people," when in fact a certain

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1071858289833043752003-12-19T12:24:00.000-06:002003-12-19T13:20:22.750-06:00

If it seems like every fourth post I write is about how drunk I am, was, or am about to get, it's because it is. I was not actually all that hosed last night, but between the four hours of sleep I got the preceding night and the roughly equal amount I got last night, I'm starting to feel hung over from lack of sleep. Thank goodness I've got more friends and family coming to town, so I can get

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1071420286225359272003-12-14T10:44:00.000-06:002003-12-14T10:50:59.450-06:00

Somebody needs to talk to our military forces in Iraq about scheduling news events at a more reasonable hour. Specifically, a little later than 6 a.m. CST, which was when my phone rang to call me in to work and press a button, then sit in my chair for six hours and wait for nothing to go wrong while we broadcast NPR's continuous coverage of former dictator and ZZ Top fourth man Saddam Hussein

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1071281567975218772003-12-12T20:12:00.000-06:002003-12-12T20:13:35.936-06:00

God damn. You know what I love? I love that, at the end of every week, there's two days where I don't have to go to work. You know what I am because of those two regularly recurring days? Goddamn lucky, that's what. Here's a shout out to my former colleagues in the newspaper business, one of the most thankless I've ever had the anti-privilege of working in. (Though it's also one of the most fun

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1071029797638949112003-12-09T22:16:00.000-06:002003-12-09T22:17:22.606-06:00

Let me tell you a little something about how we do the weather at our station: On the cheap, that's how. No surprise, since that's how we do pretty much everything we can, since we're funded by our listeners, and are thus not "rolling in it," as the saying goes. This means that our weather forecasts are formulated using a precise meteorological system, which I will now relate to you at risk of

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1071006019946609552003-12-09T15:26:00.002-06:002003-12-09T17:46:59.496-06:00

I worry I'll jinx myself by stating this, but at this point I'm way farther ahead on my XXX-mas shopping right now than I even remotely thought I would be. So far I've got my parents, sister, and Darleece out of the way. Also, since Max Power & Chesty LaRue are getting married close to the holiday, I'm thinking they get a double-up gift this year. That leaves Agent Foxxy Boxing, Oh-Oh and A-Team,

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1070921513662304222003-12-08T16:11:00.000-06:002003-12-08T16:12:37.450-06:00

So last night at 4 a.m., I awoke for no particular reason, and apparently that's when my brain does most of its heavy lifting, 'cause man, I was waist-deep in good ideas before I knew what was happening. None of these ideas were for miracle products, or cures for diseases, or cures for deeply engrained personality flaws, or novels, or even fun new outfits. However, I now know what I'm getting my

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1070756388574741832003-12-06T18:19:00.000-06:002003-12-06T18:20:30.373-06:00

Okay, so one week after my unfortunate experience with the open bar at one cocktail party, I'm going to another one tonight. Wish me luck. I think I'm gonna do a little better this time. For one, it's at my ex-girlfriend's dad's house (take a moment to take in the deep weirdness of this), and if it's all the same to everybody, I'd just as soon not make an ass of myself in such a setting. Any

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1070651011933805902003-12-05T13:03:00.000-06:002003-12-05T13:04:12.763-06:00

After a fun Thanksgiving at a bad-ass hotel in Eureka Springs, I returned to scenic Tulsa to attend an annual cocktail party thrown by a couple of friends of mine. This party was unique to my life in a couple of ways: 1) It was a relatively formal affair, requiring coat and tie (and in my case, fedora), and 2) It featured an open bar. Perhaps it's my relative lack of sophistication. Perhaps it's

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1069654671714977882003-11-24T00:17:00.000-06:002003-11-24T00:18:20.983-06:00

There oughta be a name for the condition wherein one is unable to do anything but stare at one's tiny kitten, marveling at how unbelievably goddamn cute he is. I've got a severe case of that at the moment. I don't know what it is about li'l Trucky, except just that he's tiny and stripey and gray and a kitten. That's usually enough, come to think of it. In other news: Agent Foxxy Boxing's

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1069263856889870612003-11-19T11:44:00.000-06:002003-11-19T12:23:25.280-06:00

I'm pleased to report that the previously top-secret Operation: Tiny Kitten is now a resounding success. This plan came about shortly after my dearest Darleece, in a post-miscarriage funk, suggested we adopt a sweet li'l dog she saw on the web. I went and filled out the form, met the dog, who was indeed a sweetheart, and waited for them to call back. They never did, and so I moved on to plan B,

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1069099618603571062003-11-17T14:06:00.000-06:002003-11-17T14:10:08.593-06:00

I think fall's got me in a haze. It's sort of weirdly warm and drizzly and occasionally foggy here, and that's about how I've been feeling. I can't stop playing video games. I can't stop staring into space at nothing in particular. Terrifyingly enough, the only time I really feel like I'm in the swing of things is at work, where at least I know what the hell I'm supposed to be doing. Despite the

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1068660674405560562003-11-12T12:11:00.000-06:002003-11-12T12:11:11.863-06:00

Must be willing to actually write actual letters on actual paper, then put in actual mailbox and mail. I get plenty of e-mails, but I tend to delete them, or forget they're there, or treat them like e-mail. After a few years of using e-mail regularly, I've come to the conclusion that it's no substitute for actual correspondence with friends. The only instance I can think of in which e-mail is a

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1068245320208834092003-11-07T16:48:00.000-06:002003-11-07T16:48:37.820-06:00

Maybe it's the exciting new shipment of cold weather we've had lately. Maybe it's just my general dependence on alcohol. Maybe it had just been awhile since I'd been out on the town. But man, I had a damn fine time getting snookered at Caz's last night. Nothing particularly eventful happened, but I definitely felt a genuine sense of release from the generalized staring off into space that I

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1067994943481692352003-11-04T19:15:00.000-06:002003-11-05T07:48:36.493-06:00

So yeah, it's been kind of a rough couple of weeks. This was mainly due to the unfortunate matter of Darleece's miscarriage, which, let me tell you, is the kind of thing that can really put a damper on your week. I should note here that, based in no small part on my strongly held belief that too few people think to themselves, "maybe I should suggest to my kid that he stop shrieking at the top of

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1067212954461257902003-10-26T18:02:00.000-06:002003-10-26T18:03:32.830-06:00

From "How To Be Popular: You're Never Too Young or Too Old," a pamphlet by Abigail Van Buren: "I don't recommend bars and cocktail lounges as places for respectable men and women to find a lasting relationship." This, then, leads immediately to the question, "Am I really looking for a respectable man or woman?" Clearly, the answer is no.

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1067056070902495542003-10-24T23:27:00.000-05:002003-10-24T23:27:50.620-05:00

Sometimes I think if I could spend eternity playing a neverending version of "Eurotrash Girl" by Cracker with some house band, in some Cain's Ballroom-sized venue, with a bunch of sweaty people kind of swaying, tired and happy, but rocking out still, forever and ever with the languid quiet parts back-to-back with the loud parts, and the reverb really thick the whole goddamn time ... if that

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1066144144609010962003-10-14T10:08:00.000-05:002003-10-14T10:09:04.633-05:00

Who's stoked? Run's stoked. Who's Run in this case? I'm Run. RUNNIN' OFF ON VACATION! - cough. - Anyway. Darleece and I are off to the magical land of Portland. I'm not saying whether we're going to Portland, Oregon or Portland, Maine, because I'm pretty fucking certain there's no reason for me to go to Portland, Maine, now or ever. (If you have positive, gushing testimony about what a magical

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1065894387269550782003-10-11T12:46:00.000-05:002003-10-11T12:46:26.736-05:00

Finally, a concrete explanation as to why I'm constantly tuning up my car and ignoring my wife. If there's one thing more helpful to relationships worldwide, it's pigeonholing both sexes into lists of easily categorized traits. Okay, okay, I know it's good for people who walk around with their eyes glued shut and stopped thinking at around age 13 to have some guidelines to actual human behavior,

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1065728835966523632003-10-09T14:44:00.000-05:002003-10-09T14:48:44.776-05:00

Okay, these guys are my new heroes. For today, anyway. Two of my favorite things about this page: 1) Viewing the rogue's gallery of all twelve heavily bearded, kind of confused-looking men, and 2) the logo for the World Beard and Mustache Championships. Super extra-special thanks to Agent Foxxy Boxing of the New York Bureau for sending this link my way. Good work, special agent. Remember to give

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1065124063600193982003-10-02T14:47:00.000-05:002003-10-02T14:47:43.246-05:00

As I sporadically show up for screenwriting class, two things become increasingly clear to me: 1) There are countless simple little ways in which filmmakers can enrich the moviegoer's experience, and 2) 99 filmmakers out of 100 aren't doing any of them. This is no surprise to anybody who's been to a Hollywood movie in the past, oh, 30 years. But it baffles me that, for example, whoever the fuck

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1065016434721392122003-10-01T08:53:00.000-05:002003-10-01T09:00:49.583-05:00

Some Things, Selected in no Particular Order, That I Will Miss About Agent Foxxy Boxing, Known Legally as Sarah E. Brown: • Lunch Dates. Lunch is one of my favorite meals of the day, second only to breakfast and dinner, with which it shares a three-way tie. I respect how it's able to mean so many different things in so many different situations, chief among them an hour-long escape from work.

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1064840211808316112003-09-29T07:56:00.000-05:002003-09-29T07:56:52.006-05:00

I haven't posted in a while because I've been haunted. By a number of things. Thing the first: One of my oldest and most trusted friends, whenever the topic of blogging comes up, always makes the following observation: "I just can't understand why anybody would want to post their innermost thoughts for the entire world to read." This, for me, is an absolutely airtight argument against keeping a

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1064203515311123162003-09-21T23:05:00.000-05:002003-09-21T23:08:52.840-05:00

This is officially the greatest series of photographs I've ever seen.

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1063671560956120872003-09-15T19:14:00.000-05:002003-09-15T19:27:14.283-05:00

Mr. Barrett Chase managed to spur my self-interest enough to follow through with this process, which I'm going to say he invented, whether it's true or not. How it Works 1. Send me an e-mail, saying you want to be interviewed. 2. I will respond by asking you five questions. 3. You'll update your website with my five questions and your five answers. 4. You'll include this explanation. 5.

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1063374978602986162003-09-12T08:56:00.000-05:002003-09-12T08:56:18.450-05:00

Johnny Cash, who I say with very little hyperbole was The Greatest American Recording Artist Ever, has departed this smelly world. He was 71. Johnny Cash came to mean far more to me than most musicians I listen to. Every wire service obituary you'll read today will tell you how much he cared about prisoners, about the soldiers in Vietnam, and about other people generally forgotten and fucked by

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1063236501333831522003-09-10T18:27:00.000-05:002003-09-10T18:28:21.390-05:00

Okay people, enough is enough. I'm sick of this Jerry Springer horse shit in my comments box, or any fucking comments box. I'm sick of fucking comments boxes, period. From now on, I'm deleting any shitty little message of any sort directed at anyone, friend or foe. I'm not writing this fucking thing so everybody and his fucking dog can act like two-year-olds. This, of course, goes back to the

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1062952313195136952003-09-07T11:31:00.000-05:002003-09-07T11:31:53.253-05:00

In an unforseen development, I've been asked to be a presenter at the Spot Music Awards, a shindig put on by the our local paper's weekly entertainment mag to honor local bands, or at least to make them feel important. Which I believe is roughly the same as honoring them. This presentership is due partly because of the fact that I work for our NPR station here in lovely Tulsa, and am thus

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1062634232123480892003-09-03T19:10:00.000-05:002003-09-03T19:28:21.750-05:00

Channel 290, Lifetime Movie Network: "The Abduction of Kari Swenson." 1987, 100 min. Rated PG. Biathalon champ Kari Swenson is kidnapped by mountain men. With Tracy Pollan, Joe Don Baker, M. Emmett Walsh, Michael Bowen, Ronny Cox, Dorothy Fielding. Directed by Stephen Gyllenhall.

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1062353202832784732003-08-31T13:06:00.000-05:002003-08-31T13:12:14.733-05:00

Maybe a year or two ago, I was at our dear, dear Caz's with Mr. Jimmy Jam one evening, when an idea sprang from my head, fully armed and dressed for battle. It promptly left the bar, as said bar was clearly no place for good ideas. A few moments later a second idea climbed from the gash in my head: Clearly, this idea muttered, spitting bits of blood and brain, clearly there should be written a "

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1062199246011218262003-08-29T18:20:00.000-05:002003-08-29T18:21:14.670-05:00

I'm fuckin' beat, people. This week seems like about the longest I've ever experienced, due in no small part to my birthday drankin' debacle and the two-day recovery period that ensued. Making the week even more exhausting was the fact that I started auditing a screenwriting class this week -- exciting, yes, and stimulating and whatnot, and I'm sure it's gonna do me a lot of good, but working it

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1061942494657889082003-08-26T19:01:00.000-05:002003-08-26T19:01:34.720-05:00

After some reflection on the evening out last night in celebration of my birthday, some thanks and other sentiments are in order, a la "TV Guide": Cheers: To the Brookside Bar, for mixing some seriously potent and tasty White Russians. Though I kind of wish you hadn't. I kind of wish you'd only sold low-point beer to us last night, but I suppose some responsibility must lie with the drinking

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1061904748342118062003-08-26T08:32:00.000-05:002003-08-26T08:32:28.393-05:00

As of 8:29 a.m. on the morning after my birthday, I am faced with a question: How do you tell if you're hung over, or if you're still drunk from the night before? Work, here I come.

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1061835994457195442003-08-25T13:26:00.000-05:002003-08-25T13:26:34.433-05:00

I'm pleased to announce that, despite my initial trepidation, 28 feels quite a bit like 27 did. Except that I'm mysteriously covered in boils.

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1061583718564970502003-08-22T15:21:00.000-05:002003-08-22T15:21:58.600-05:00

My boss just pointed me at this, one of a few letters in defense of Kobe Bryant, sent to god only knows who. Read the previous four, but this one's my favorite because it's signed, simply, "Jesus Christ, the Black Messiah."

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1061567679395984172003-08-22T10:54:00.000-05:002003-08-22T10:54:39.443-05:00

Birthday's a-comin'. I'm officially starting to look crosseyed at 30, which if I squint I can see from here, off on the horizon, waving cheerfully. I've discussed this with Jimmy Jam, who is I believe the oldest person among our group of friends at roughly two weeks older than I. (He turned 28 two weeks ago; I turn 28 Monday.) We decided we're going to have to do something about this, since

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1061472757697147372003-08-21T08:32:00.000-05:002003-08-21T08:32:37.676-05:00

Brandy, you're a fine girl what a good wife you would be but my life, my love and my lady is the O.C.

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1061229834872423272003-08-18T13:03:00.000-05:002003-08-18T13:03:54.800-05:00

So though I often hesitate to admit it, as I often have to explain myself to people I've known for a while, I'm in a fantasy football league. This is my third season, and by this point I'm comfortable enough with it to say that I'm really, really stoked about the impending football season. I know it's kinda lame. I still get a little embarrassed about having to say the words "fantasy" and "

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1060985085642162342003-08-15T17:04:00.000-05:002003-08-15T17:05:07.993-05:00

After an evening of hot Pim's action and several subsequent scotch 'n' sodas, and a considerably abbreviated round of sleep, I was nearly baffled to discover this morning when I woke that my old nemesis Johnny Hangover was mysteriously absent. I've thought it over, and I figure it's either witchcraft or the scotch. I seem to agree pretty well with the stuff on most nights, though sometimes it

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1060785147445506812003-08-13T09:32:00.000-05:002003-08-13T09:37:14.910-05:00

How do I love The OC? Let me count the ways. I'm at five or eight right now, and I'll bet I can think of more. I'm not gonna lie to you: Ever since "Beverly Hills 90210" went off the air, I've been kind of wandering alone in the woods as far as crap TV goes. Don't get me wrong: The time Darleece and I spent with "Temptation Island" and "America's Next Top Model" we count as some of the happiest

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1060703693567937842003-08-12T10:54:00.000-05:002003-08-12T10:54:53.550-05:00

Good thing #1,212 about our house: Attic fan, baby. We had eerily, fantastically mild and pleasant weather last night, and truly, this is the attic fan's time to shine. Jacked open some windows, laid that sucker on, and all of a sudden it's we're sleeping outside, only we're in our bed, and we're not being eaten by bugs. Good thing #4 about our house: Have I mentioned I freakin' love our porch?

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1060370037843053882003-08-08T14:13:00.000-05:002003-08-08T14:14:14.873-05:00

As I was wandering around my house buck naked this morning (I got detoured on the way to the shower; it happens), Darleece opened the front door and barked out a laugh. Apparently we'd been TP'd; a casual inquiry indicated it was quite possibly the work of Jimmy Jackass/Jam and Dr. Flash, the former of whose car was parked in front of the house of the latter. (If the last half of that sentence

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1060118223053383072003-08-05T16:17:00.000-05:002003-08-05T16:17:03.130-05:00

Like that venerable Great Satan Phil Collins, I can feel it comin' in the air tonight. Unlike that horrible shit, I'm not goin' down goin' down like a monkey. Regardless, tonight tonight tonight, the shit's comin' down, yo. To start things off we have Agent Foxxy Boxing's O.C. premiere party, marking, as you may have guessed, the premiere of the long-awaited(?) Fox drama about the O.C., aptly

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1060009614145124992003-08-04T10:06:00.001-05:002003-08-04T10:06:54.213-05:00

At my grandpa's funeral a month and a half ago, I learned that my towering, awesome grandpa was first spotted by my grandmother as he walked across campus at Phillips University, Enid, Okla., on his way to an 8:00 class, singing "Oh What a Beautiful Morning" at the top of his lungs. I smile and get a little misty whenever I think about this, because for years now I've been walking across various

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1060009588629973382003-08-04T10:06:00.000-05:002003-08-04T10:06:28.696-05:00

Had plans to see childhood hero "Weird Al" Yankovic at River Parks' floating ampitheater. During dinner and kick-ass margaritas at Cafe Ole, raging thunderstorm suggested to us that perhaps the outdoor show might be canceled or postponed, which indeed it was (it's now scheduled for tonight). Thought we'd try something different, so we went back to the house (hereinafter referred to as "Fort

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1060009496091880012003-08-04T10:04:00.000-05:002003-08-04T10:04:56.103-05:00

Sitting on the couch and quietly recovering, at some point Darleece sat up, peered between the blinds, and started laughing. Turns out Jimmy Jam was shambling across the street after spending what appeared to be the roughest night in history at Professor Flash's house. I am not exaggerating one little bit when I say Mr. Jam looked like he'd been dragged behind a truck for about 600 yards. He

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1060009435280490522003-08-04T10:03:00.000-05:002003-08-04T10:04:13.300-05:00

Breakfast was had, with our out-o'-town pals and Agent Sly Foxxx. Borders was visited, during which time Darleece picked out a book of National Enquirer photos to look through that was way cooler than the one I picked out on industrial design. Or at least, I wanted to look through hers more. Home was gone to. The passive voice was overused. Heart-to-heart was had with Agent F.B. Target was

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1059870260513138902003-08-02T19:24:00.000-05:002003-08-02T19:24:20.516-05:00

As any of you who may have tried to comment over the past day or two may have noticed, Squawkbox.tv decided I'd been using their free comments service too frequently, and that if I wanted to continue doing so, I'd have to start paying them for it. I mean, I know technically they were giving me something for free, and thus I'm in no position to complain about the quality of their product, or the

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1059748748357386712003-08-01T09:39:00.000-05:002003-08-01T09:45:23.656-05:00

So Darleece and I got a pleasantly unexpected invite to the cozy-yet-sorta-scary abode of Max Power, for dinner, booze and board games with him and Chesty LaRue. When buying hooch for the evening, we tried to lean toward slightly less dangerous stuff, i.e. wine other than Pinot Grigio, which Darleece has a little problem with. (It just goes down too smooth, not unlike the transvestite hookers

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1059605545614206322003-07-30T17:52:00.000-05:002003-07-30T17:52:25.643-05:00

In the course of sorting through the crap that was in my old room at my parents' house (see prev. entry), I've discovered, among other personal treasures, several "Anti-Coloring Books." If you're not familiar with the Anti-Coloring Book, allow me to elaborate: The premise on which these activity books for kids is that young minds will be more "stimulated" if you encourage them to draw their own

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1059412735364769522003-07-28T12:18:00.000-05:002003-07-28T12:18:55.393-05:00

Here's something I hadn't counted on when we bought our house. You know how, in your old room at your parents' house, there are boxes of your old crap stowed away in a closet, boxes you've always told yourself you'll pick up "someday, when I've got somewhere to put them"? Turns out your parents remember vividly these vague statements you make, and are waiting outside the title company for you to

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1059241435739331112003-07-26T12:43:00.000-05:002003-07-26T12:45:05.563-05:00

I'm sick. Or at least I was sick, and now I'm getting better. When I was actually sick, I was too busy with important things like moaning, clutching my midsection, and power-vomiting my 3-Cheese and Avocado sandwich, to write about being sick. There were also some unpleasant lower intestinal side effects I won't bore you with. Yesterday I lay on the couch all day and didn't watch TV until about 5

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1059056999799700312003-07-24T09:29:00.000-05:002003-07-24T09:30:32.106-05:00

NOTE: This post is a continuation of a spirited discussion that got started in the comments of the last post. As it represents the most thinking I've done about any subject since I first saw the Texas Rollergirls' homepage, I figured I'd continue it here, as who knows when my brain might get fired up again. Please see said comments for more background, or skip this entirely if you'd rather read

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1058926690388662442003-07-22T21:18:00.000-05:002003-07-22T21:18:10.416-05:00

I'm officially giving up on Edwin Mullhouse, the book I've been trying to read since I went to the Big Easy in May. Technically I've been trying to read it since about 1997, when I first picked it up from the bookstore where I worked at the time. It seemed like fun: The life, death, and legacy of an American author who publishes his literary masterwork at ten and dies at eleven. And the prose is

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1058733634168427012003-07-20T15:40:00.000-05:002003-07-20T15:40:34.230-05:00

I used to really hate Sunday afternoons. Or else I was spending them with friends who really hated them, and felt like I ought to hate them too, in the name of general supportiveness. I can't really remember how I felt about them then, but man, I'm sure glad to have Sunday afternoons now. Not just because I generally need the time to reset my brain after the two preceding nights, but man, I just

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1058557983018092002003-07-18T14:53:00.000-05:002003-07-18T14:54:25.273-05:00

If you ever, ever, ever see me in a restaurant, and I'm with my three to six kids, and they're shrieking like the ring wraiths, and I'm ineffectively trying to "suggest" that they stop screaming by saying things like with my vooooooooowels stretched waaaaaaaay ooooooooooooout in a reeeeeealy nasal waaaaaaaay, and people around my table look like they're two shrieks from snapping like a twig and

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1058359609863515542003-07-16T07:46:00.000-05:002003-07-16T07:46:49.943-05:00

My dear friend The Cheat brought to my attention this afternoon that when you accidentally type .org instead of .com at the end of his blog's address, it takes you to this bizarro Japanese merchandising site. I tried doing the same thing with my blog -- same results. It's hard not to get very excited about this; after all, who doesn't secretly (or hell, openly) want a Japanese product named

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1058155983101082312003-07-13T23:13:00.000-05:002003-07-13T23:47:57.940-05:00

... And yet somehow we made it back from the river unscathed, mostly. Our collective sunburns are mostly manageable -- I think mine and Marty's were the worst; this scalp sunburn I've got may well prove problematic eventually. Nobody was seriously injured, though Jimmy Jam did take an oar to the face at one point that seems to have left a pretty whopping sore spot, and perhaps a minor concussion,

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1057963806115825022003-07-11T17:50:00.000-05:002003-07-11T17:50:05.986-05:00

After a relaxing lunch with Agent Foxxy Boxing and a monstrous margarita (two of my favorite people), we ventured to Target, the greatest retail location on Earth. We saw many things, and purchased several others. So we're walking down the main aisle, and as we're approaching the feminine hygiene aisle, we hear a loudish voice yell, "YOU'RE NOT GOING ANYWHEEEEEERE!!!" Turns out it was just a

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1057935158645142142003-07-11T09:52:00.000-05:002003-07-11T10:08:49.360-05:00

Sweet holy hell, it's time to float the motherscratchin' Illinois River. People, I've got a feeling this is gonna be big. What started as Max Power drunkenly imploring Darleece and I to float the river with him and Chesty LaRue has snowballed into a full-on low-point beer extravaganza, complete with everybody Max & Chesty knows, plus the two of us, plus Agent Foxxy Boxing and noted indoorsman

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1057850383095479272003-07-10T10:19:00.000-05:002003-07-10T10:19:43.106-05:00

I used Mac.com's previously useless photo album feature to post scans of Agent Foxxy Boxing's stellar photos of Dr. Voltron and Shaniqua's wedding. I was a little disappointed there wasn't a more humorously inappropriate template to post them in, but all told, I suppose the school bus theme will do. They're really best viewed in slideshow mode. Much like myself.

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1057792142809998502003-07-09T18:09:00.000-05:002003-07-09T18:09:02.873-05:00

Man. You take a few days off from Hulk boxing, and all of a sudden there's nothing to write about. Except, rejoice! Agent Foxxy Boxing has returned from th' big city, and from being wooed by an entire municipality. At this point it's starting to seem like Agent F.B. is a company that's planning to move some factory or another, and I'm part of the chamber of commerce, trying to get her to stay a

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1057523374205752482003-07-06T15:29:00.000-05:002003-07-06T15:32:54.830-05:00

I tell you, we're on some kind of a roll here. This weekend kicked off and kept rolling, not unlike some kind of gigantic bowling ball made of snow. And fireworks. And booze, and hulk gloves. Last night was ... well, much the same, I guess, but that's not to make it seem mundane. There was Caz's, there was adjourning back to the ranch, there was Miller Genuine Draft, and oh, was there ever Hulk

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1057432590543933112003-07-05T14:16:00.000-05:002003-07-05T14:16:30.600-05:00

I didn't really expect another drunk-ass evening out of last night, but since I didn't plan on not getting drunk, apparently I did anyway. Jimmy Jam and I went to a party (small gathering) hosted by his OJ Benefactor's son's girlfriend, if you can follow that. While sweating and watching humanity out on the back stairs, I heard my name shouted heartily. Behold Leticia, friend of Agent Foxxy

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1057352507119017112003-07-04T16:01:00.000-05:002003-07-04T16:01:47.206-05:00

holycraaaaaaap. The shit has once again been tore up, yo. We rang in some 4th of July starting last night on the 3rd, since, y'know, we've got the day off and all. We hit some dinner at Cafe Ole, which paradoxically has the greatest margaritas and patio in all of Northeastern Oklahoma, but is constantly patronized by the worst kind of scum, SUV-driving, leathery asses who ask for everything on

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1057203426002271652003-07-02T22:37:00.000-05:002003-07-02T22:37:06.036-05:00

Sometimes I think that no matter how many times I see that awful bitch get booted off "America's Next Top Model," it'll never be enough. It's not just wonderful that, after an hour plus an entire series of being just inexcusably awful (plus not shutting up for one goddamn second about what a great big fucking Christian she is, and how much better that makes her than everybody else on the show --

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1057024298094958702003-06-30T20:51:00.000-05:002003-07-08T09:51:31.026-05:00

dear sweet heavenly merciful crap. I'd say I'm amazed I survived this weekend, but frankly I'm more amazed that Jimmy Jam both lived and somehow, improbably, impossibly, was not arrested. Like, repeatedly and forcefully, with much jailhouse brutality. To start: Damn, what a lovely wedding. Dr. Voltron and Shaniqua worked their asses off (mostly Shaniqua's ass off), and it showed. Their wedding

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1056754257153770812003-06-27T17:50:00.000-05:002003-06-27T17:52:26.796-05:00

Survived night one of Dr. Voltron's preunptial booze-a-thon. I kept thinking it seemed pretty mild, but all of a sudden I got the "If I take even one more sip of beer I'm gonna blow chunks on the person across the table from me" feeling. But then the lights came up, and everybody got thrown out, so I had a graceful out. 'Cause god knows I strive to be as graceful as everyone naturally expects a

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1056638029386783622003-06-26T09:33:00.000-05:002003-06-26T09:33:49.306-05:00

This evening marks the descent of nearly everybody I know into several days of extremely heavy drinking; if this is the last time I post, I won't be that surprised. For Saturday marks the technical legal union of my longtime homey Dr. Voltron and his patient lady, Shaniqua. They've been going out/living together for six years, and I give them props for not caving to the constant squawks of "

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1056503904046133822003-06-24T20:18:00.000-05:002003-06-24T20:22:27.120-05:00

First of all, these girls are idiots. Second of all, see first thing. There's one girl who's really cute, but she's like way, way, way too skinny, though I'm pretty sure that's not considered a liability in the fashion industry. And so, like, the entire episode these other girls WILL NOT SHUT UP about how they're POSITIVE this girl's got an eating disorder, and not to cast aspersions on these

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1056408293964348322003-06-23T17:44:00.000-05:002003-06-23T17:44:53.853-05:00

TULSA -- In a development that surprised approximately no one, Monday, June 23, 2003, has now declared utter victory over area resident Megalodon*, officials declared this afternoon. Mr. -odon had previously made statments declaring that quite the opposite would happen, and was not available for comment at press time. "I appreciate a good fight," said Monday in a brief statement to the press. "

briantologistnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5499888.post-1056382095758554172003-06-23T10:28:00.000-05:002003-06-23T10:28:15.776-05:00

Today's gonna be a good one. I'm gonna actually accomplish things today, rather than just checking every ten seconds to see if anybody's updated their freakin' blogs. True story. Seriously. Even though it's 10:30 and I just finished eating breakfast at my desk.

briantologistnoreply@blogger.com