We stood beneath an amber moon

I had this thing half-written when it up and erased on me. Actually, it was the fault of my carelessness. Balls. Anyhow, I'm sick today. I say this is a crappy season and I'm sick of being sick. No pun intended.

Rumors that Salman Rushdie is sold out are unfounded. As of today there were about 210 left. After I purchased mine, there were only 208. Hurry while tickets last. Seating is already limited. I'll be way in the back, squinting to see the man. Now I have to hurry up to finish Midnight's Children. I'm only on about page 104, and I'm not holding out much hope to finish it in time. Maybe I'll skip it and just go drink green beer.

Had a conversation with Jack last night about what I ended up naming my car. Sad to say I never really made a decision. When I got the car I started calling it Dressy Bessy and old habits die hard, you know? I'm not really even that fond of the name.

My recent running efforts have been largely thwarted by late-winter slothfulness. At the end of the day, I just want to curl up and wait until it's warm out. I hate the fucking snow, man. I'm about to start pulling my hair out.

So all this college basketball is kind of exciting and everything, but I'm jonesin' for some soccer. What the mess, you know? I can't find it anywhere. My dad gets about 952 TV stations, but all the good ones you have to pay extra for. I'm moving to Brazil. Watch me pick up a street match with the kids in the favellas.