All sales final.

This thing suffers from some kind of mental constipation. I tell myself that I will sit down to drum up some new material and it's the follow-through where things tend to fall apart. Truth be told, all it would take is one good post about any given day and then follow it the next day with "Ditto." That's taking the easy way out, but it is not too far from the truth. If cleanliness is next to godliness, then ditto is next to the truth. Both are many doors down from cleanliness.

Perhaps one day the natural flow of ideas will once again spring from the noggin like waiting for a highway rest stop after consuming a Big Gulp. The dam will hopefully one day burst and until that happens, you're stuck with this kind of crapola. Typing shit and saying nothing.

I guess you get what you pay for so be thankful that this thing is free. Otherwise, all sales are final.

JOEY RAMONE (May 19, 1951 – April 15, 2001)

April 14, 2011

It was one of those days often best forgotten. In the moment, that really isn't an option until time has its way with the memory and the distinct details get smudged and blurred like some kind of Impressionist art.

Attending a local Chamber of Commerce breakfast event and getting to rub elbows with bona fide movers and the obligatory shakers that always seem to latch onto the movers is not my idea of a good way to start the day. By and large, I was letting the words wash over me without seeping into the mind too much and just waiting for the mass exodus to the door.

Paroled.

The workday was largely spent repressing the urge to tell many people to leave me alone before escalating to a full-blown shut the fuck up outburst. It never reached either level except within the confines of my skull. Both phrases are still ricocheting around my head even though I am sitting alone ready to pull the plug on today.

Tomorrow, I am thinking that I should cut right to the chase and listen to Slayer right out of the gate.