Spent hours fooling with the CSS to come up with a mundane color combination that doesn’t make me want to puke when I look at the links on this page. Maybe it makes you want to puke.

While doing that I was surfing around and hassling with the help desk at [domain-host name removed to protect the working stiffs] to get my password because I’m embarrassed by the old web page of my business which I have paid no attention to since maybe 1998. Or earlier. And it wasn’t any good then. Even as brochureware it sucked. And I had no clue about just telling the truth, but rather tried to get all quasi-professional, proving to anyone with any wits that dropped by that indeed I knew fuck-all about web design, and wasn’t that accomplished as a musician.

I dropped in on the accomplished musicians while waiting on hold to get my password reset… hint, you can hack anyone just by sounding sincere… I didn’t have any way of authenticating myself (no mom’s maiden name or any other challenge question really) but the guy at [domain-host name removed to protect the working stiffs] was a good fellow and reset my password for me anyway… wait. I better go back and edit out the domain host’s name. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.

Best thing I read tonight I think was this at Tom Matrullo’s.  I was going to leave a copy but Golby had skateboarded by and dropped in something intelligent and I didn’t want to look all shabby by comparison, since Matrullo is one of the profound thinkeurs of our time as evidenced by this bit with which he ties off his excerpt from Bertrand Russell:

Touchstones. All returns, the argument doesn’t change, no matter how networked, here’s a network via BMO, the same lineaments again, riverrun past eve, again. Good t-shirts might help:

The musicians… Peter is off on a voyage via 767 out of Santa Monica via Chicago to who knows.  Madame is working off brilliant chat with Locke, all Ezra Pounded and Hank Miller, and big tits in Big Sur and they’re having fun but I’m not.

I think it boils down to a fucked-up childhood.  I want everyone to love me all of the time.  And when they don’t, well… futher proof that I’m the POSTWRA.  That stands for the “Piece of Shit The World Revolves Around,” but I don’t want to offend anyone’s fucking sensibilities so I use the acronym.

This week I was foolish enough to share my well reasoned if totally batshit paranoid theory regarding the Bush family anthrax in Daschle’s face conspiracy with Jerry Michalski.  He looked at me like I had stepped in dogshit.

Tonight I looked up Charlie Hyder.  He’s still dead.  But somehow the pictures of my dear friend Jim Evans had escaped me when I was neuroto-surfing on these subjects before.  And I have no idea whether Jim is alive or dead, in Colorado or California or home on the ranch in New Mexico with Bonnie, finally aging gracefully, or what.

And sadly, I am now convinced that I have never had an orhinal thought.  Boo fucking hoo.  My typos are more interesting than my reflections.