various notes to self

It's another compendium blog, boys and girls. Here goes:

• When delivering your neighbor's mail and her four-year-old daughter happens to answer the door, it might not be best form to be rocking a full-on sex-offender mustache then engaging in a one-minute conversation with said four-year to find out where the recipient of the package is.
• Lying asleep in your jeans is only gratifying when you've fully earned it through the full force sloshing of Fernet Branca, or the desk you're waiting for actually shows up.
• Finally getting around to restaining your dresser might not be the best idea when the weather dips 40. Nor is continuing to aerate your place through the two weeks that is apparently required.
• Advice from a friend: Women are all about changing the names of things. Brunch is just a respectable way of drinking at noon. But that doesn't change the fact that it's still drinking at noon. (editor's note: if and when you meet a women who just calls it by its rightful name, then know at that moment that she's a keeper and one to take home to mom.)
• In general, classical is the best winter music. This is non-negotiable. It is also great for traveling. What's great summer music is probably hip-hop, but I have yet to warm enough to the genre to test it out. And yes, I understand that confession means I will probably never get laid again by a certain segment of the female population below the cut-off of, say, 33. I'm getting more comfortable with this by the week (and the notable distance from Fernet Branca).
• Some of you may remember, either selectively or not, Vladimir Putin showing off his Judo moves. And if you don't, shame on you, because the guy should be wrestling a bear or at least the knife that lost in the Chuck Norris knife fight. And so if you do, you will not need to focus on this next item, because you already understand this guy needs a fan club. And if you don't:
  
  
  Seriously, this guy needs a fucking fan club. He's either the poster child for our age or the perpetual victim of the eternal midlife crisis. Oh, and he's a semi-totalitarian prick. Which means he's all of the above.

In all honestly, I should be asleep. Bon soir, faithful readers. You make me feel like a huckster.

Staycation, 2010

So I've embarked on a Staycation, having one for this entire week. A week to myself. As distressing as that will sound to anybody who has actually had the pleasure of spending fifteen minutes with me will surely identify, and as unfortunate as having to pull that odious portmanteau out does signify. But I digress. I will have a week for this.

Do I have any goals? I hear the sirens' chorus invoke. There will be a list, but I'm not about to let this post delve into the ruminative sort. The short form:
1) declare martial law in Calif (sorry, that bad breakup will not completely end, although it's a goal).
2) delete "Thanks!" from the lexicon unless a service has actually been rendered, after the fact, and adequately so.
3) spread puppies and kittens, love and joy to everyone.

And what will I really accomplish? Stay tuned. The bloody, horrific details will be chronicled. Until then, teasers from NYE: