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At the top of CNN/com at this minute is the following News Alert: “The death toll for U.S. troops in Iraq reached 3,000 on Sunday with the death of a soldier at a military hospital, the Pentagon reports.”

Right under it is the headline to their top story of the moment: “Celebrations around the world”.

Do you think the second mentions the first?

Is it time to immanentize the eschaton yet?

So after spending a day or two not writing and just relaxing (relaxing in this case is watching some of the first season of SNL on DVD as well as other stuff and reading a bunch of Twain) I got up this afternoon intending to write.

And then I realized I slept oddly on my left wrist (the good one) and shot it all to hell.

The universe really wants me to slack. I shall abide by its choice.

At 4am this is what I think of:

I have the sudden urge to get McDonald’s fake breakfast foods. Fake eggs, fake meat, cheese product and knock-off English muffins are what this country is made of and by God I want to partake.

Except I hear tell that breakfast doesn’t start until 8am in McDonald land. I will be asleep by then. EXCEPT EXCEPT this McDonald’s is open 24hrs so maybe it starts early?

I don’t want to go and find out because it will go like this:

“Excuse me, kind sir, may I partake of your fine hash brown slabs?”

“It is too early, gentle soul. For now you may only have McNuggets. Or perhaps a supposed fish filet is more to your liking?”

“No, for you see it is 6am. It is the time for hash brown slabs and heavily processed orange juice. This is neither the time nor the place for your nuggets and fake fish.”

“But that is all I can offer you.”

“And yet my soul yearns for the hash browns! Woe unto me!”

“Nuggets or I will be forced to ask you to leave!”

“Nevermore shall there be nuggets, sir!”

And then I’ll run out of the store crying.

So I can’t do that, obviously. And so instead I’ll sit here and chew this idea over in my head until I decide to go to bed, unfulfilled, sans hash browns.

Ex-President Gerald Ford died.

“Ford, the oldest surviving former U.S. president, died Tuesday, his wife, Betty Ford said. The former first lady’s statement did not say where he died or give a cause of death.”

First of all, I don’t know that I trust Betty Ford.

Second of all, I really wanna know if he tripped, fell and died.

Mean? Maybe. Heartless? Possibly. But you know that somewhere you are all thinking it, too.

In process of shifting to a nocturnal stance for a week or so. Please pardon the mess.

Also in process of listening to the Grease soundtrack. It’s the little things.

Considering I don’t tend to do the present thing much for Xmas, I rely on the universe to give me gifts or not as it sees fit.

This year all it got me was James Brown’s death.

Not only didn’t I want that, I can’t return it and I’m not sure who to regift it to.

Yeah yeah, holiday, merry things, blah blah fuckity blah.

I’ve spent the last two days writing like a madman and have, in the words of a friend, leveled up. I’m seeing things differently, I’m wielding the craft differently and finding brand new toys to play with in places where there used to be white space. I am fully charged and fucking well excited to be here right now.

I mean, yeah, I’m also in a lot of pain, having blown out my wrist last night and not giving it quite enough time to settle – but that is dealt with with the application of a brace.

I’m just… I truly hope each and every one you has something that shows you how this feels.

Fucking hell, who needs drugs?

The other day I mentioned the time I realized Santa wasn’t real. Well, my mother read it and told me a bit of the story I didn’t remember at all:

“I wanted to add the other event of that night that you seem unaware of. I saw the look on your face as you came in the room and thought you might have seen your father rushing out. Once you were back in your room, your father and I discussed whether you might have seen something. On the off chance that you had, we managed to find an old rattle stashed in a box of kiddie toys in the closet, one that had bells on it. We waited a bit, and then shook it a bit, hoping you’d hear the bells and assume it was Santa’s sleigh and that anything you’d seen would lessen in importance. Since you never said anything about doubting Santa the next day, we let well enough alone and did not question you.”

So there you go. My parents, it would seem, tried to redirect things. It worked so well I don’t even remember them doing it. I don’t know that I even heard the noise, or if I did that I thought it was what they wanted me to think. But it is kinda sweet that they tried, isn’t it?

And here we have Jean-Claude Van Damme dancing on some TV show and showing off his moves with two different women. then, later in the clip, we have Van Damme getting an erection while dancing and trying to hide it.