For today not being a day off, I got an amazing amount of stuff done. First of all, I made the happy discovery that my laptop allows me to play all of the music I have on my hard drive without the hassle of creating playlists and all that other stuff that was beyond the capabilities of the old Compaq. I know, it doesn't sound like much, but when you haven't had the ability, it's almost miraculous to behold when your computer can actually do some basic task you want it to do. But the simple fact that I can listen to Tonight It's You by Cheap Trick, followed by a rattle-the-windows version of Orff's O Fortuna, then Feelin' Stronger Every Day by Chicago without having to stop what I'm doing and hop from window to window is empowering, indeed.
(And having a good set of surround speakers on the shelf and a subwoofer under the desk makes all the difference in the world, too!)
Hell, writing is way more fun when I can have music playing, as evidenced by today's outpouring of drivel!
Besides my musical discovery, I got a bunch of laundry done, my room cleaned, the dishwasher loaded, the trash taken out, the towels folded, all of my clothes put away, the Zippo lighter refilled, some online sleuthing done, and every sock I own is in one place. Tomorrow's project is to mate them up, hoping they reproduce.
While going through my laundry, I had to toss several pairs of boxerbriefs and undershirts in the garbage, as they'd given their all and served their owner admirably for several years and were just plain worn out. As a guy, I believe that I'd probably never buy new clothes unless I subscribed to the Vacuum Theory of Men's Fashion, which simply states that most guys will never buy new clothes unless they throw out the old ones first. It's like we're programmed to only have so much attire on hand at any given time. Once we finally realize just how few pairs of socks/underwear/dress pants we really have, we finally do something about it. Of course, this only applies to single men who don't have women shopping for them. Married guys never seem to run out of new clothes.
But now that I've gotten rid of so much underwear, I realize that I'm a little short on skivvies, so to speak, and a portion of the checking account will have to be allocated to the Jockey-mongerer this week. If not, I'll be going commando at the Pai Gow table by the weekend. At least I still have my Elvis and SpongeBob boxers, and what they lack in support they more than make up for in hipness and breezy comfort.
Anyhow, since I was such a busy little worker bee all day, I was going to reward myself with a couple of hours on the couch with the remote and a generous helping of ESPN, but of course all they were talking about is Michael Vick, and they're running that story into the ground like Fox News did to the bloated corpse of Anna Nichole Smith. I guess it's better than the Terrell Owens saga like we've had the past few summers, but if certain pro athletes weren't such asshats, I guess we wouldn't have anything sports-related to talk about in late July.
At least the NBA gave us confirmation this week of the thing we've suspected all along--that the games were fixed.
I'm shocked--SHOCKED--I tell you!
I was also hoping to watch last night's episode of Entourage on the DVR, but the Cox suckers yanked our free HBO HD channel this weekend, so now if I want to see my favorite show, I have to cough up an extra twenty bucks a month. Nope--not gonna happen. After that shiatty Sopranos finale, HBO can hug my free-swinging yambag--they're not getting a dime from me. I'll wait until it comes out on DVD, and then get myself a pirated copy. If The Man is gonna stick to me, then I'm gonna Stick It To The Man!
In the meantime, I guess I can just sit here at the desk listening to all of my music that was collected using purely legitimate means...
Mikey
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