Unfinished business...

Ahem. Ladies and Gentlemen, I do not know who Paul Southworth is, nor do I find his webcomic particularly funny, however Gec has suggested to me that perhaps, for reasons unknown, Paul Southwick reads my blog. Why would Paul Southington want to read my blog? Maybe to turn the Greatest World-Domination Scheme Of Our Times (if I do say so myself) into a dumb one-liner. For shame, Paul Southerncomfort, for shame. Anyways, I'm not one to be sore, so I'm offering Mr. Southstein the opportunity to contribute to the Plan 50-WD Fund (it's for the children), and I'll even put his name (whatever it may be) into the drawing for puppet governorship of the world's leading producer of vanilla. Didn't know that, did you Paul Southkowski? Yeah, didn't think so.

So sorry about another Link-heavy post here, non-Paul Southpaw readers, I wish I could write a good blog, but you'll have to settle for consistently poor blogsmanship. The devil you know, eh? Look out for five posts in the month October, guaranSheed.

Down To The Wire

Well, I said I'd try my darnedest to meet my quota this month, and I have to admit that even as I sit down to write this hack rubbish, I'm not sure what in the name of Jim Johnson, defensive coordinator for the Philadelphia Eagles, I'm going to write about. Don't ask me how I know who Jim Johnson is, I don't know, but look it up, I think that's who he is. Right now I'm over at Eric's place, congratulating him on figuring out how to load pictures onto his internet blog page website, and trying to make green beans (as well as a few has beans) and spaghetti work and still manage to get to the church in time for my brother-in-law Mark's 9:00 holy hour. Why am I talking about this? Because that's what is happening right now, for me, and this is my blog, baby. Ah, perfect. The noodles are done, and Eric's just placed a piece of salty toast in front of me. Seven minutes to eat. I'm not sure exactly from whence came to him (take that, fans of clear and concise writing) his recipe for salty toast, but he insists on calling it garlic toast, maintaining that there is garlic somewhere in the salt. It's not bad, don't get me wrong, but I believe this piece of bachelor cuisine to be particular to himself. The man should have a cooking blog, in addition to his always-interesting blog about drawing comics in the nude. Ok, I lied about the nude part, do check out his blog. Mmm... hot, delicious spaghetti. I must eat fast, will try to post again tonight to meet quota. Vive le blog!

"When you go your way and I'll go mine..."

Good gravy, I get myself a good five-three-five-three streak going on (or is it the other way around?), and then one crazy month happens and I'll probably never get another two posts out by month's end. Oh well, that's what comes of having a lot to do and nothing much to say. Actually, now that I ponder upon it, what have I been doing with myself? I turned twenty-three this month, which feels older than it sounds. I was thrown a surprise party, which wasn't all that surprising but was a party with nearly my whole family and Lindsey's as well - all at Casa Mish, bless them. Even my brand-new niece Jane made an appearance. She arrived a few days before my birthday, breaking my immediate-family-wide stranglehold on birthdays in the month of September. Whew, did that last sentence make sense to you? Nope? Sorry. Yes, stranglehold. I guess this means that one of our birthdays shall henceforth be neglected in the interest of the other, and I'm not holding out much hope that it won't be mine. Still, I can't very well be sore about it, she's the cute one, and (for the first few years at least) probably easier to shop for to boot. Maybe when she becomes a teenager we'll go back to celebrating my birthday instead of hers. I did get some pretty kickin' gifts this time around, though. I won't name them all, but Linds is taking me to see BOB FREAKIN'DYLAN for the occasion. I tell ya, that woman's a keeper. Seriously. I've been on a psyched out Dylan kick ever since, which I guess isn't saying much because I'm always on a Dylan kick, but it is saying something. Trust me. Gec gave me Chronicles, Volume One, Bob Dylan's autobiography of sorts. I was a little nervous to start reading it, since I generally don't want to know more about artists I admire, but it's really a great read and I've nearly finished it. Dylan's writing style is always compelling, and he manages to write about his times and his music without really writing about himself much, which suits me just fine. It's like the book form of one of his best surreal mid-sixties songs, with characters wandering seemingly aimlessly in and out of a narrative which still somehow manages to sound cohesive.

Anyways, there's more to write about, but if I write about it now I'll never reach my quota. Watch your head out there, you never know when it may be in some kind of peril.