Just Musing, But...

...If I have to see those Goddamned "Miller Lite Referee School" ads from now until the Pro Bowl, I may go insane. They were pretty good last year, and now they've drained all the fun from the idea. Gone is the spontanaeity which was the best thing about them and now it's just a deconstruction. Of their own ads. Grr. Haaaaate.


...Quite Frankly, Stephen A. Smith, I don't know what you think, and I can assure you I don't care what you think. That ESPN pays you to talk about anything other than pro basketball is in itself remarkable, but now you're on my TV, it seems, twelve thousand times a day, pimping your ride. If you must yell at me about sports and societal issues you're not qualified to report on, could you at least lower your voice a little? And stand up straight. And take your hands out of your pockets. And please, please, in the name of sports journalists everywhere, stop dancing. Jesus. You're a loud talker who knows a lot about basketball. You're not a multi-media sensation.


...I've had a cough for two and a half weeks now. I'm pretty sure it's an allergy and not pneumonia or a cold. (I guess you were right, G.-) So I splutter and hack a lot, and my throat is dry as hell, so I took my formerly-winters-only humidifier out in the God damned dog days of summer, when you'd think the humidity would liquefy the sidewalks. Plus I've been drinking way more water than normal, so it seems like I get up from my cube at work every ten minutes. And since I'm a temp, I have to circumnavigate roughly three quarters of one of the largest office buildings in Chicago to get to the reception desk to get a key for the men's room. And back. At least the girls at the desk are down with why I'm always "going."

But it just sucks, being sweaty and hot like I always am, and yet being throat-dry and raspy and coughy, especially now that audition season is starting again and the vox means more to the populi. Maybe worst of all, my cat Mackie likes to sleep on me or next to me a lot, which is as close to God as it gets for me, and every s often I bust out with a Phrumphhhrphrhh-wheee-wheee-whhhh and he wakes up all startled and recoils, looking supremely pissed that I disturbed his slumber. "Don't be all pissed at me, man," I say. "You're pretty much to blame for this shit." Which he is; he isn't hypo-allergenic in the least, and he's a huge boy who sheds like a mofo, and I sneeze because of his dander year-round. (He's worth it, that's why.) But it still upsets him, and I'm all frustrated because I don't know why this allergy has manifested itself in this way, and if I can't heal my throat enough to sing with any consistency I don't know what the fuck I'm going to do.