A Man Taps A Microphone

I told myself I wasn't going to post anything here until I had something to post but I wanted a certain someone to know that I had been here. Maybe that someone is you, reader. Perhaps at the time that this was being typed out you were the face I saw, leaned in slightly towards the dim welkin glow of the computer screen. Wondering what crazy looney toon wrote this cryptic nonsense. The truth is, it was, ME!

Guess who is coming to dinner ...

I don't want to say that I am coming of age in a society that deems, nay, DEMANDS, a certain social finesse that a monkey with a wrench and a pocket knife could manage ... but I'll go ahead and say, while pressing my nose, that Narcissus was one attractive bastard. Where is my mirror?

OH! Guess how much I don't care about the new iPhone. No, go ahead, guess. Rhymes with ... zero. Or Juniper berries. Yes. Lots of berries.

I'll make the claim later, but not now because you'll (the adoring public), be forced into some sort of tizzy, that art is nothing more than a pile of trash on which we can all wash our private parts and be happy that someone just paid $6 million for a display. Oh. And that it makes us happy. I don't know which one comes first.