Decimals and Db.

I often wonder what I am cut out for. I mean look, just look at all of these skinny, be-acne'd little boys and girls running around the campuses of Harvard and MIT, slowly working their way into the world of finance and geo-politics and cancer research; and what the fuck am I? I am the guy who is going to ahve to depend on these societal rejects to make sure my liver and my bank-account don't give out before the other third come for their back-taxes! Who am I then? Am I the musician, the artist, the poet, the slut, the tubby guy, the anorexic, the chain-smoker, the pot head, the alcoholic, the carcenogenic martyr or some sort of exotic fruit bat? What the fuck? Identity crisis? I wish! I don't even know whta an identity is!

Piss.

-jim

Owl, meet Rabbit.

Winnie the Pooh left the forest for an hour to get groceries...

The Falsity of Reality.

I am going to be on a reality television show. I am not kidding. People usually talk about how they would like to be stuck in a million dollar loft with eight other people or trapped on an island for three months, but I am going to do this. I am privately auditioning for Simon Cowell's new project "America's Got Talent" - which is the worst title ever, by the way - playing guitar and singing pretty. So, come Monday morning I will be standing in front of some quack-assed panel of 'celebrity' judges who will berate me and make me sign a waiver so they can put my visage on the air waves at high frequency. If I succeed in the audition, I will be in L.A. all summer long. If not, you will see me on the "disaster" reel. Sigh. Life comes down to these moments of "what the fuck, man?!?!" way, way, way too often.