You must be kidding me. "Sunrise?" That's our topic?

This is getting to be painful.

14:13 Net crashed - not sure why. Resetting the router. #

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This simply can't wait for the Friday Sundries. It can't. I must admit that I am not much of a comic-book reader, although From Hell is slowly converting me into one. But this ... words simply fail me. The only thing I can say is,

You have to get out of here - your VAGINA is HAUNTED!

Anyway - I'm going to go flop for a while. I keep managing to derail my own recovery, but in this case it was do it or witness Epic Kitty Faceplant from the chair, and I decided that was Not Good.

11:10 This is the worst Christmas music ever and it makes me want to stab someone in the face. #

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11:11 Texting from a streetcar, LOL. Full of white people. #

12:04 Cow acquired. Time to eat! #

16:41 Drinking at the Columns. Perfect - nailed the booth. Not many people here. #

17:34 Oh god food, I love you food. #

17:48 Ugh - arguing about Walmart. This is boring. I hate economics. And I hate self-righteous conspicuous consumer bullshit. #

17:55 Fair trade bullshit. I want my products made and packed by children in China for five cents a day. #

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12:02 The Macy's parade. I'm in hell. Going to go hide. #

15:36 Dinner almost served. Sad how people don't know their forks. #

19:31 @walkertxkitty Having a brandy alexander for you. Glad you left that place. #

19:46 "Creep" by Radiohead summons Eric out of the crud-encrusted corners of my psyche. Can we ban the song? #

19:56 Nina Simone is dead. Which is unfortunate. Because I'm in love with her voice. #

20:17 No one can stop us now. We're made of stars. #

20:55 Jessie tells me I ought to have a song. She says "Breath" by Breaking Benjamin. Thoughts? #

21:32 Kitty's inlaws are a bunch of fucktards. #

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It's Friday! Time to see what's stuck in my mental lint trap. Oh hey, is this your sock?

- Recently I read a short article about Krampus. He's a demon that accompanies St. Nicholas at Christmas and acts as a foil for jolly old St. Nick. He carries a basket of switches for the bad children and scares the piss out of them. Recently he is enjoying a return to popular celebration after years of neglect. This pleases me. Christmas needs a little evil.

- The "Soul Bowl" is this weekend. Southern vs. Grambling. While it may be folly of the worst sort, Jess is considering going to the Quarter because - and I quote - "I need a cow." It's Friday so it may not be that bad, especially if you take the streetcar.

- Now, I'm as big a fan of Taco Bell sauce packets as the next person. But this is depressing. It is also a listing in Florida, official state of Fail. The commentary is hilarious, but the whole thing still makes me feel sad, and a little dirty, as if I was going through a friend's bathroom cabinets and found a plastic bag stuffed with human hair.

- Why do small children smell like Wheat Thins?

- I am noticing a disturbing trend - Golden Girls tattoos. For one thing, I can't quite understand getting any sort of pop culture tattoo. I could never sit around in my old age, trying to explain to my grandchildren why I have this tattoo of Winnie-the-Pooh wearing a Nine Inch Nails t-shirt. It just seems like people don't realize that they are tattoos. They don't wash off. They are there for life.

- I think I'll walk over to Fresca. I have an envie for a lamb lavash, and we can hit Maple Street Books on the way back. I need the fourth Dexter novel. I need it.

I've been holding a kitten today. Actually I tucked her into my shirt so she could snooze and hear my heart beat. I hope it helped. The kitten dozed off and on, a warm, fuzzy thing. I hope you felt something of that.

I have a huge brandy alexander. It's like an alcoholic milkshake. I am feeling happy and buzzed, and waiting on Kitty to get home so she'll come back online and I can roll around on her.

I know she fucks with you. Don't let her get to you. Some people do love you.

Mmm. Ice cream and booze.

15:26 tinyurl.com/yd5jz8s - the Minneapolis PD must be having a garage sale. #

16:16 I can explain the busted monitor, but not so much the phone. #

16:51 I'll take Unable To Process Reality for a thousand, Alex. #

18:22 Do not care about Obama or Wayne or any of this shit. #

18:30 Jesus, I'm not your fucking secretary, make your own calls. #

20:12 I have a meat pizza and no appetite. #

08:19 Oh fuck, open Idol topic. Someone throw me a prompt. #

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Getting to New Orleans was the typical battle with cheerfully homicidal, rather intoxicated fellow travelers made none the better by Patrick's constant badgering and blather. It had been a long, stressful day and I was in no mood to hear about Barack Obama, Wayne, overtime, or anything else. But I was also not inclined to just leave Jess alone to deal with him. Anyway we were picking up Naked Pizza. Problem was, we were both so stressed and emo that we couldn't eat. Eventually after three or four glasses of wine things unknotted to the point that we scarfed down a couple of pieces.

I should not have reacted to that phone call like that. But hearing that slimy, venom-laden voice purring, "Hey, Jessie..." just set me off. I don't want my name or the name of anyone I love in that mouth. Anyway, there was another model just like the one I took out in the computer lab so I switched them out and we'll blame it on the hurricanes. I find it amusing that I started out as a technophobe who was suspicious of the toaster and now I'm messing with the Windows registry and running a Twitter account. I am truly a Renaissance Man. The phone ... well, Jess slams it enough that all it took was one good whack from me to crack it the rest of the way. I repaired that with duck tape. The phone is typical Office Off-Black. The duck tape is tie-dye. I think I'll submit it to There I Fixed It. No one will notice, you think?

We may be going home tomorrow. Patrick's back is all fucked up. Not that it would break my heart to go home. Jess is ordering some candles since we won't be going to F&F - I don't dare ask what she's got in mind, especially as I know it involves me. I think it's something defensive. Well, perhaps I should amend this. For a long time I claimed that I know nothing about magic but it seems that I do. It's just that our Guild never framed the techniques that way. Most of what I learned is defensive. There's no reason to know how to launch a psychic attack when I can just kick your ass on the physical plane, right? I suppose I ought to devote a little more attention to the subject. Jessie's vodou practice reminds me a bit of the things I've seen Alia do that her Maman taught her. Whenever someone was seriously ill or injured she would write their name on a slip of paper and put it underneath a candle, then sprinkle a ring of salt around it and burn it all the way down.

I'm sure she did this for me. An awful lot of people have gone through a whole lot of trouble to keep my body and soul knitted together. I may as well do something useful, neh?

08:19 Fear the power of my mighty Twitters. #

08:52 Bern's brother is picking up Starbuck's, bless his heart. I need some coffee so bad I'm about to lose it. #

09:23 It's decaf. Shit. What a tease. #

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When you see it, you'll shit bricks.

Realtor Showing House Finds Pile of Human Bones in Basement.

Needless to say, this occured in Gibson, Louisiana, just up the highway from here. Gibson is weird. People from Gibson are weird. I don't go to Gibson.

They're likely to be Indian bones and in that case they'll be returned for burial elsewhere. If they're not Indian they're likely the remnents of a sacrifce to Basement Cat.

Also, according to the Onion: LIBRA - Death will soon take a holiday, leaving you in charge of watering its plants, feeding its two tabby cats, and knocking this Friday on your elderly father's door."

Better now.

I feel rather like I have been run over by a train, but that's to be expected. But I'll live, and you still owe me twenty bucks.

Just not up to anything amusing right now. Later I have an essay on violence in fiction (which, IMO can be as excruciating as a poorly-written sex scene if it isn't handled right), some incredibly suggestive vintage ads, and possibly my extremely belated idol entry just for shits and grins.

Remind me never to do this again. We owe Mr. Janvier a bundle for this one.

Fucking hell. I feel awful - like I'm hung over, but I didn't sit up drinking all night. If I had I would have at least enjoyed myself.

Everyone back now? Like you really want to be tapped in right now, yes.

Just shoot me.

Crap. Just a quick nap, I said. I'll feel better if I rest up. No harm in a little shut-eye.

Except for missing the Idol deadline. By thirty-six minutes. FUCK now I used up my other bye. And it's way too early to have burned both of them.

This isn't good.

First - I suspect this xkcd comic applies to me and just about every woman I know.


The cat story and a few other things have me thinking. (I know) I read a book by this woman who's a profiler, and she declared that any one-time killer is a potential serial killer. In a way I suppose she's right. Once you take that first big step it's easier to do it again. That doesn't always mean circumstances will be favorable for the local cat-killer to turn into Ted Bundy. So what happens to that other, what, 90%?

Do you suppose that these budding little monsters cross paths with a big, grown-up monster like myself? They're happily going along strangling cats and stalking cheerleaders when they bump into something with sharper teeth and longer talons, and they find they're on the menu. Nom nom nom.

Now a few of them ought to be stroked, guided, and allowed to flourish. But the majority, after spending years surveying the news and reading the details, are guilty of being boring. They kill without poetry, and have no sense of the supreme importance of what they do. All kidding aside - you're not just jerking off here.

I don't necessarily claim to be, at the bottom of it, much different from these idiots. I sprouted the same dark wings and black scales myself. It's a matter of education. I'm still circling my point here, so pardon me while I continue to chase it around and tire it out so I can pounce on it. I might have been chopping up prostitutes and collecting their shoes if it weren't for intervention. Someone recognized the infant monster and educated it, trained it, and helped it grow into the magnificent horror I am today. (BTW - the most amazing chunk of crust just came out of my ear piercing.) It must come down to the difference Kitty pointed out - there's no real outlet in this world for people like me. The military wouldn't quite cut it. Nor would law enforcement, although being a forensics geek would allow you to play around with blood stains. The only thing I can come up with is perhaps Special Forces or the CIA. I know the American government squawks and flaps about how they don't engage in assassination. This is why they have the problems they do. Just throwin' it out there - I'm not cheap but I do good work.

My point, I think, is that there are some of these little douchebags who need to be taken out before they become a danger to themselves and others. Occasionally something will pass through my field of vision that hums with a sense of beauty - the feeling that someone knows exactly what he's about, and has managed to spread his wings and polish his scales despite this world's best efforts to keep him in a tidy little box. Unfortunately, that doesn't happen very often and the majority of what I see is pointless, ugly, and sloppy. They're not Hannibal Lecter, no matter what they think of themselves. They're not refined, sublime creatures and no amount of dead kitties and mutilated hookers will elevate them out of the slime they live in. Poor little things, they're obviously unhappy, and someone should put them out of their misery.

Ah well - I should go write up my LJ Idol entry. I've pushed this up to the last minute.

What color is your parachute?
Gold - what other kinds of parachutes are there?

Who moved your cheese?
No one. It moves by itself like those rocks in Death Valley. Give it time and it will be out the front door.

Where's Waldo?
Waldo sleeps with the fishes.

Are you my mother?
Yes, but I had to give you up when you were just born. I couldn't care for you and continue to carry out contract killings for the Russian mafia.

What's happening to your body?
Cells are reproducing and dying, oxygen is being carried in the bloodstream, and sugars are being converted to energy. It's terribly fascinating being me.

"Blood is the great materializing agent, both for spirits that would incarnate in this world (or on this plane) and for spirits which, remaining in another world, wish to assume a shape in order to impress their presence upon human beings." - Kenneth Grant, The Magical Revival

"At this time London was agog with the exploits of Jack the Ripper. One theory of the motive of the murderer was that he was performing an Operation to obtain the Supreme Black Magical Power." - The Confessions of Aleister Crowley, edited by John Symonds & Kenneth Grant