eroticizing Curious George again

I saw a poster on my subway station platform about the upcoming Curious George movie. I immediately noticed that the music was written and performed by Jack Johnson...

Jack Johnson. Curious George. Bi-curious. Monkey sex.

I don't know why my filthy mind made the connection, but it did. Jack Johnson is hotter than hell, so I could eroticize a parking ticket if he sang about it. Barefoot.

I'm sorry, George. I haven't had a mental picture like this since the Friends episode with Marcel the monkey:

Rachel: Marcel! Bad monkey!
Ross: What?
Rachel: Let's just say my Curious George doll is no longer curious.

me again

one of my holiday favourites

Schmucker opens his yap again

Anybody with any ambition at all, or intelligence, has left Canada and is now living in New York. Canada is a sweet country. It is like your retarded cousin you see at Thanksgiving and sort of pat him on the head. You know, he's nice but you don't take him seriously. That's Canada.

Will someone please load Schmucker Karlsen into a Russian rocket and launch him into the sun? And while you're at it, strap in Ass Koulter (a.k.a. blonde Satan harpy).

SO happy

This cheers me up so much. When people drive high-end luxury cars around with an arrogant sense of "entitlement" and:

get traffic tickets

get towed away

get into fender-benders (no injuries... just fender-benders)

get on the receiving end of "pedestrian rage," like in this video

all is right with the world. Peace on Earth!

Thanks for the clip, Mitz.

p.s. - guess if I've ever unloaded some "pedestrian rage"

how my air conditioner reminds me of my single status

--> it has been sitting on the floor of my apartment since I took it out of the window in October

I need a man. Or a little truck/dolly thingy to wheel it down to my storage locker in the basement of my building.

I've asked Jason and Too Busy Living to help, but they have a way of mysteriously disappearing when there's work to do.

TTC bus vs. Infiniti SUV

Part of me so wished that the driver of the TTC bus I was on this morning hadn't practiced good defensive driving, and instead had hit the Infiniti SUV that cut him off by city hall.

We weren't going fast. No one would've been killed.

I've ridden this route for years. On one near-miss occasion, I was sitting behind the bus driver, who remarked, "I could've hit that car, but I don't feel like doing the paperwork tonight." I love it.

Infiniti idiot: do you think you're a match for a vehicle that is several times your weight and size? Do you think that driving an SUV makes you invincible?

Bring it, mofo.

me

I'm all ready for Brokeback Mountain.

living in Toronto: the appreciative post

Every now and then, I am reminded of why I like living in Toronto. Tonight, that reminder came as I finished renewing my subscription to Vanity Fair. On the website's Roundtable section, there is an article by Anderson Tepper on the strength of the Canadian literature scene in Toronto. It's a brilliant piece. I loved his comparisons of Toronto and New York:

Toronto, like an eclipsed, earlier version of New York, is being re-written, remapped, reimagined. [...] Toronto: a mini–New York; an anti–New York; a younger, more global, more tolerant New York.

It's not the first time the two cities have been compared. Peter Ustinov once said that "Toronto is like New York run by the Swiss."

Unfortunately, we've had some bad years since then. John Barber of The Globe and Mail wrote recently that Toronto is now more "like Cleveland run by the Canadians." Years of rule by an uptight Italian-Canadian-Catholic police chief has left my area of the city a pale shadow of its former self. (I flew to Spain for some goddamned backroom action! Hello!) Marge Simpson may have uttered the best recent description of Toronto: "It's so clean and bland... I'm home!"

But Tepper's article made me appreciate my city again. Just as the Turner/Whistler/Monet exhibit I took in last year at the Art Gallery of Ontario did. As does the fact that tonight, I finished my Christmas shopping in 30 minutes without setting foot in a shopping mall.

Check this out: Tepper mentions the Murmur project. What you might not have read about Toronto in a novel by Atwood, Ondaatje, or Irving, you can discover by walking around with a cell phone and listening to the narrative recordings.

Of course, Jason will likely post a bitchy comment about how Canadian literature is an oxymoron. Ignore him.

gawd I hate the TTC

I don't judge anyone who drives their vehicle* to work in the Greater Toronto Area. Yes, our freeways and commuter arteries are a gridlocked mess most of the time, but it's no wonder. There is little coordination amongst the transit systems of the outlying cities, successive provincial governments have slashed funding to GO Transit, and Toronto has a bad habit of ripping up pre-existing rail lines and turning them into long, skinny parks (or ignoring them altogether).

And then there's the TTC. The Better Way, my ass. It took me 50 minutes to get home from work tonight. If I get a bus right away, it takes me 20 minutes. Walking takes 35.

The problem tonight, I think, was that a bus was missing from the regular pattern of service on the route. This accounts for my 25-minute wait at the stop. Luckily it was only -5c tonight, so I didn't freeze to death.

Between the unpredictable wait times, the oft-surly drivers, the beat-up buses, and the multitude of crazy (and smelly) people who ride, it's all a bit much to take sometimes. Trying to entice people to use public transit is a common problem for large North American cities. I think we could take some lessons from the Europeans. In Finland, you can get a text message to your cell phone telling you when the next bus is due to arrive. In German cities like Berlin and Munich, the U-Bahn is a thing of beauty: extensive routes; reliable, automated, and audible next-station-announcements; directional signage in the subway cars indicating the doors to use for the next platform. Heck, even the MUNI platforms in San Franisco tell you when the next goddamned train is coming.

This post is in celebration of Ontario's new High Occupancy Vehicle lanes. HOV lanes: the traffic solution that many North American cities are abandoning after years of failure. Attention Toronto retailers: your used mannequins have just quadrupled in value...


* as long as it's not a gargantuan SUV with only one occupant

madame's mornings

A Random Person (RP) has transcended space and time and has managed to enter madamerouge's body (this is non-sexual, pervs) to experience what it's like to be madame in the morning...

RP: Omigod, I had no idea it was this bad. So is it every morning that you feel like you want to die, or just today in particular?

madamerouge: Pretty much every morning. If it's a weekend, and I get to sleep in and watch the Discovery Channel for a while, it's not so bad. But during the workweek, yes, I pray for death every morning.

RP: That's not good. You should talk to your shrink about that.

madamerouge: Yeah, whatever. Where's my coffee?

erase hate

Snacksie and I saw Cyndi Lauper in concert Tuesday night at Massey Hall in Toronto. She is amazing live; I highly recommend seeing her if you get the chance. Oddly enough, we did not get our purple bracelets.


You see, our Cyn met Judy Shepard in October and is now on the honourary board of the Matthew Shepard Foundation. As part of the partnership, attendees of Cyndi's current tour receive the bracelet. Whatever the reason for the absent bracelets tonight, Lauper's commitment to the foundation is admirable. She performed her new song "Above the Clouds" which was inspired, in part, by Matthew. Introducing the song, Cyndi said that she wants a world without hatred for her son and for everyone... a world where "difference would be celebrated... so that if you saw a person who was different from you, you'd be more likely to approach that person, have a converstation, and find out that maybe you weren't so different after all."

immobilisé, day 3

I blame most of it on being called into work on Saturday.

Ordinarily, I stand a pretty good chance of landing in a "valley" after a "peak" such as my trip to Spain. Good times can't last indefinitely, my brain tells me. If I could have spent Saturday napping and leisurely getting ready for the two Christmas parties I was expected at that night, it might have turned out differently. I might have had some more fun. Instead, I got home from work exhausted and fell asleep at 8:30 p.m. I turned off my phone, crawled into bed, and slept for 14h.

Monday, I not only missed work but also medical tests necessary for an upcoming procedure (a procedure that's causing me inordinate amounts of stress). But yesterday's small miracle was that I had a shower and brushed my teeth. Baby steps.

Today, I'm literally forcing myself to go get those missed medical tests from yesterday and head to work after that. I have Cyndi Lauper to look forward to with Jason. Baby steps.

dinner with supermodels

Lastnight, Paul and I went for Cuban food at an amazing little place in the Chueca. Shortly after we arrived, two of the tallest, most impossibly-good-looking people EVER came in... a man and a woman. They were so tall and so perfect looking, Paul and I decided they had to be models. The guy was literally one of the most beautiful people I´ve seen in person. He was wearing a Dolce & Gabbana shirt with Huey, Dewey, and Louey on the front. They took the table in front of ours.

As if that wasn´t enough destruction, they were soon joined by more and more beautiful people. They were all smoking and drinking, and I realized in horror that my jacket, which I had hung on the wall, was now buried in supermodel jackets. I briefly considered leaving it there... passport, wallet, and all.

We had our food (I ate all my carbs, despite what I was looking at), drank our daquiris, and hung around long enough to verify that they did, in fact, eat something (and not just smoke and drink).

Oh, and later lastnight in the Eagle, I met a really nice flight attendant from the States and finally did bad. My mojo´s back, baby! (What is it about me and Europe that I only seem to hook up with Americans?)

can Europe please stop smoking for one second?

It´s official: I love Madrid. I love the architecture, the osos, and the round Spanish asses on the hordes of HOT men EVERYWHERE. But Pablo is very dissapointed in me, because I´ve apparently lost my mojo. I have not had "the sex" since being here. Oh there was a darkroom trist at Cruising, but that was really more fun for the "coke can" than it was for me. (Jason, you know what I´m talking about? Dr. Brad?)

The peak was at a bar called Paso where I was simply stared at by several patrons. Unfortunately, there was so much cigarette smoke that after 45 minutes without a hazmat suit, I had to leave. Upon exiting, a tall hombre grinned at me and said loudly, "Toro! Toro! Toro!" FINISHED! I managed a "buenos noches" and a blush but left.

Madrid out... Mloyd

I got schtuck at Schiphol

OK! Nightmare trip so far. A snowstorm descended upon Pearson as I was waiting for my flight. Over 2h late taking off. And, at some point KLM decided to become Martinair and cram about a million seats into a 747-400. I thought I was going to die. Knees jammed into the seat in front of me. Zero room. 4-year-old kicking the seat behind me for the entire flight. (Oh, except for when she fell asleep on our approach to Amsterdam, and failed to wake up despite the plane being struck by lightning 3 times.)

By the way, I never have to take one of those parabolic flights that they use to train astronauts. I (and the rest of the jam-packed flight) experienced a couple of zero-G moments trying to land at Schipol. The pilot had his work cut out for him. It was one time in my life that I wasn't stressed out by applause at touchdown. This guy earned it.

Of course, I missed my connecting flight to Madrid.

2.5 hours of waiting at the transfer desk and I'm on the 4:15 p.m. flight to Madrid. I'm really glad there were no flights that left while I was waiting in the transfer area. That would have really sucked.

Three calls to The Westin Palace Madrid (7.40 Euro), and I think I might have successfully left a message for Paul explaining that I'll be late.

Anyway, I have to go get something to eat now (it's 12:33 p.m. local time). But before then, I have to go on seatguru.com and find out if the nice (I'm being serious) KLM agent upgraded me to business class on the Madrid flight. I'm in 6C. Think good thoughts for me!

Mloyd

Goodbye forever, Midtown Saturn Saab!

There's a certain peace that comes over me when I realize I can just walk away from a stressful situation. Pull the cord on the emergency chute. This is the type of calm that settled over me tonight during a careening ride through rush hour Toronto traffic in a beat-up Beck taxi--a ride paid for by my car dealership; no doubt because I got General Motors Canada involved in a little "disagreement" about the latest service incident with my car. Tonight, I decided, is the last time I deal with Midtown Saturn Saab. I can pay this ridiculous bill, walk out the door, and never come back...

I blogged about these car troubles on the 16th and the 19th. The trouble on the 19th (howling noise from engine; fluid leaking out) turned out to be a loose power steering hose, right under the top radiator hose. The very radiator that the dealer did a flush & fill on last week. No, I know. Completely unrelated.

I was informed of this over the phone this morning. In addition, I was told that since the problem was unrelated to the previous service, the dealer would no longer be covering the cost of the tow (as promised on Saturday morning). "I really fought for you," the service rep said, "but the manager won't budge." Then he launched into yet another pitch about how I should disregard the manual's recommended oil change intervals (16000 km regular use; 8000 km severe service) and get the oil changed today (5956 km after the last change). Do these people work on commission?

I said I'd call back. But my next call was to GM Canada. They heard the story, and requested a faxed copy of the Nov. 16 repair order. This afternoon, GM called me back. After speaking with the dealer, it seemed there was a "miscommunication" about who would be paying for the towing charges. Midtown would pay for the tow as promised, and GM would try and get Midtown to come down a bit on the current repair price.

So I cabbed up to the dealer, paid the $102.81 bill, and left. I won't be back.

I wish I didn't care about cars. I wish I didn't care what kind of car I drive, or that I felt the need to own one at all. Earlier tonight in the stinking taxi, I looked out the window and watched the traffic beside me on Mount Pleasant Road. Two gorgeous E-class Mercedes-Benz, followed by a Pontiac Montana. All three drivers were getting from A to B. The Benzes had gleaming, crystal-like headlamps and pretty gauges casting attractive glows on the drivers' faces. The Pontiac needed a wash. My mind drifted to the recently-announced massive layoffs at General Motors. Too many cars being produced and then sold at cut-rate "employee" discounts. Cars are a disposable commodity, I thought. They're like microwave ovens, or cordless telephones, or widgets.

Anyone want to buy a widget? It's all up-to-date on its service!

Tori does Cyndi

a sampling of Tori Amos' cover of Cyndi Lauper's All Through the Night, Royce Hall Auditorium, Los Angeles, April 25 2005

Jason and I are seeing Cyndi Lauper in concert on December 6th! Although Jason makes fun of my fondness for Tori, he seems to forget that he liked Armand Van Helden's 1996 remix of "Professional Widow"--in fact, I think he even owned a copy. This was back when Jason was into dance music. Now he's into early-bird specials and online spades with other seniors.

I give up

Wednesday, November 16th: I bring the car home after paying a $2800 repair bill. This morning: I go to use my car for the first time since Wednesday. After starting the engine, I notice a howling sound. It doesn't go away. I decide to try and drive (slowly) to the dealer, but the howling sound becomes a screaming sound if I touch the steering wheel. I turn the car off. The engine has seemingly barfed yellow-green fluid (coolant?) onto the pavement. I go back inside, call the dealership, and speak with the service manager. He agrees to pay for a tow truck.

This post is in case anyone was wondering why I entitled my blog I always win.

I love Saab. I hate Saab. I love Saab. I hate...

$2807.14 is, for me, a lot of money. It's four months of rent. It's roughly my annual grocery budget. But today, that is the amount I spent getting my Saab fixed.

What started off on Friday as a trip to the dealer to repair a fault in the alarm system ended up being a whole bunch of service that:

a) the car needed
b) can be viewed as preventative
c) would have cost me a great deal more on separate trips (think disassembled European car engine, then think $109 hourly shop labour rate)
d) the previous owner (who leased the car from the very dealership I bought it from) neglected to do *

My horoscope for Friday said that I shouldn't buy anything. Perhaps that's why I nodded and said yes--with what I'm guessing was a glazed look in my eyes--to all of the service items. It was one of my Mary Richards moments. You know--where she looks at the price of the meat, rolls her eyes, and tosses it in the shopping cart.

It's ironic that I drive one of the safest vehicles in the world, yet fantasize that a flying truck tire or a nice rock outcropping will put me out of my misery... I should be driving a 1988 Ford Tempo with no airbags.

* Apparently, if you lease a car, you don't have to give a flying fuk about doing stuff like scheduled maintenance. Of course, if you skip the maintenance and the car is damaged as a result, you're up the creek. But if nothing bad happens, you can return the vehicle after your lease is up and, in concert with the dealership, royally screw the next guy. Caveat emptor!

oh that Francine!

I love my Francine Smith on American Dad. In "Francine's Flashback" (aired in May 2005), she gets freaked out by her own pubic hair. "Who fired the gardener?"

But it was in this week's "Stan of Arabia - Part 2", that she really earns my respect. At the end of her rope and fed up with living in Saudi Arabia, she does a song & dance number in a bazaar, stripping down to her undies and singing about how the country is only fun if you're a man:

So if you've got a vagina, a vulva, a clitoris, and a labia
Stay the hell away from Saudi Arabia!

I wonder if Seth MacFarlane will soon have to go into hiding like Salman Rusdie did...

Look who's back! woot! woot!

Everyone say "re-hi" to Mitzzee!

separated at birth?

I have often thought that CNN's Jack Cafferty and Sam the Eagle from The Muppet Show were very similar. Senior, learned voices struggling to be heard in a din of youthful boisterousness. The types who would be most apt to remind us that having no knowledge of the past dooms us to repeat it. Clucking their tongues in disapproval. My heroes!



In James Wolcott's column "Flooding the Spin Zone" (Vanity Fair, November 2005), Jack Cafferty is given the props he so justly deserves. Analyzing the coverage of hurricane Katrina, Wolcott examines CNN's new program The Situation Room and my Jack, writing that Cafferty's "ire showered the mediascape with volcanic ash." Jack'll call the world on its bullshit, that much is for sure. Wolcott continues his dissection of Cafferty and in particular his pairing with Wolf Blitzer ("inspired casting") by writing that "Blitzer maintains a lack of affect whatever Cafferty's provocations, blinking at plausible intervals as Cafferty drives the argument downfield with an eloquence to match his ferocity." (emphasis mine)

I love Jack Cafferty. In my fantasy world, he'd grow to be hundreds of feet tall and, with his giant foot, squish Bill O'Reilly like a bug.

my head nearly exploded

I have a bit of a thing for cops. When I consider what happened to me today, I'm surprised I didn't drop dead.

There was a police protest march in Toronto this morning. Unfortunately, its start point was right where I work. I pulled into my usual parking lot. There were already lots of police officers milling about. I waited behind a couple of other cars and finally pulled up to the cashier's booth. He said, "I'm sorry, parking today is for police only. Go to the next lot." By this time, there were vehicles behind me and cops on foot everywhere. I blurted out, "you mean I can't park here because of this bullshit?"

That's when one of the nearby officers' ears perked up.

"What do you mean, bullshit?" he asked.

I glared at him and powered my window up.

So now I had to do a three-point turn and exit. This wasn't easy, because the enormous outdoor parking lot was now spilling out cops heading to the protest.

Have you seen pictures of drivers on country roads surrounded by livestock? That was me in my car, having to (non-agressively) sound my horn to get the cops to move. It took forever to get out.

I parked in the next lot and walked down the street to work. This is when I started to notice that they weren't all fat middle-aged cops like the one who called me on my remark. In fact, there were tons of young, hot, buff cops. My head was reeling; I tried not to stare. Some of them were wearing cologne; the smell of freshly-showered men washed over me in waves.

By the time I got to my office, I had to close my door and put my head down on my desk for a few minutes.

"Grow up, Heather! Bulimia is so '87!"

Here's Flitsee and Jason discussing the takedown of Ooh La La and Jason's new blog:

unfamiliar with this GenX cultural landmark? click here

screen captures courtesy of How
Very!

Searching for Flitsee Flinger

I started Tuesday's blog posts as a journey... a journey to understand the role of blogging women in bloggywood. Their hopes. Their dreams. The challenges they face. My journey begins and ends with Flitsee Flinger: an award-winning blogger who seemed to be on top of the world, who had the love and adoration of thousands, but who--for very personal reasons--quite simply vanished from blog life. I was, quite literally, Searching for Flitsee Flinger.

Mitzzee Muzzled Mee

Since I can't undo a whole morning of cbox posts and miscellaneous comments on every blog that I can remember being linked to Ooh La La, I'll provide this update instead: Mitzzee appreciates all of the lurve (although you'd never know it from some of her comments on the previous post), but the poor dear just needs a break. Like Sarah Jessica Parker killing Sex and the City in its prime, or Naomi Judd leaving The Judds, she decided to exit while the exitin' was good. (I'm secretly hoping that her "retirement" is more akin to Celine Dion's... i.e., often-promised but never actually delivered.)

For more information, please visit the homepage for Exhausted Bloggers of North America. The family (myself, Jason, Bruce, Shora, Carmine) asks that in lieu of flowers (or pleading e-mails), comments and good wishes be left here rather than sent directly to Mitzzee. (I really can't stress that point enough. She'll cut me.)

p.s. - I would like to take this opporunity to thank Mitzzee for linking my blog to hers when I first started at the beginning of this month. A ringing endorsement, indeed.

Mitzzee, we mitzz you so much...

Post a comment on this entry if you'd like Mitzzee to rejoin the fold and bring back her blog, Ooh La La.

I'm going through freakin' withdrawal here.



Come back to the five and dime, Mitzzee Dean, Mitzzee Dean...

I'm not the only one...

...who wonders why The Tea Party had the career and exposure it did in Canada, or who isn't lamenting their breakup. This Canadian band wouldn't have been lame if it had just billed itself what it was: a tribute band to The Doors. Who does Jeff Martin think he was kidding?



This was from an online poll yesterday.

NB - I am not a completely merciless critic of Canadian music--despite my post from Friday, October 7, 2005. I'm just not afraid to voice my opinion of which Canadian acts, sheltered by CanCon regulations, suck ass.

it's time for some more Shirley

and I thought Brokeback Mountain was going to destroy me

Jason, Paul, and I saw C.R.A.Z.Y. lastnight. It is a really good film... it has already won a prize at the Toronto International Film Festival, and will probably take best foreign language film at the Oscars. I'm even going to take liberties with copyright law and post the movie poster, because I really want people to see this movie.



This is the best Canadian film I've ever seen. Director Jean-Marc Vallée has created something so true to the identity and sometimes tortured experience of a young homosexual that it's almost hard to believe he's not gay himself. I left this movie in such a state of catharsis that it took me a good 10 minutes to pull myself together. (Jason and Paul, I'm sorry I was such a mess.)

this is so west coast

My friend Paul, currently visiting me from SF, brought me this poster that was apparently all over the Castro during Folsom. It appears to not be associated with any particular organization or support group... I'm guessing that someone made it him/herself and decided to paste it on light standards. I love points #8 and #10. And I love the little cub on the right. WROWR!

(Alright, alright. Confession: madamerouge secretly envies the progressiveness of the west coast; having lived in Seattle and spent time in Vancouver and San Francisco. But from time to time, things like this poster just strike madamerouge as so granola as not to be believed.)

this other redhead said it best

click here to listen

Freudian slip (a.k.a. too much Thanksgiving dinner)

Thanksgiving on the shore of Lake Huron. Dinner is finished. I'm trying to recall the name of a math teacher I had in high school. The teacher (who was excellent) was somewhat overweight in those days, so I described him as "rotund." My brother starts laughing loudly. When I ask him what is so funny, he tells me, "you pointed at yourself when you said rotund!"

Bed-o-win Sound-torture

I don't know about y'all, but if I hear "When the Night Feels My Song" by Bedouin Soundclash one more time, I'm going to lose it. Seriously, I want Coca-Cola bottles to fall from the sky (a la The Gods Must be Crazy) and hit them all on the head.

Other songs that drive me meshugena:

anything by Maroon 5

"Pon de Replay" by Rihanna

"Bad Day" by Daniel Powter

anything by Simple Plan, Amanda Marshall, Nickelback/Chad Kroeger, or other lame Canadian acts that wouldn't be "acts" without Canadian content regulations

the etymology of "madamerouge"

January, 2001. Puerto Vallarta, Jalisco, Mexico. The San Marino Hotel. A rainy day. Jason, myself, and our other friends spend the day downing Pacifico and blender drinks. Dinner is consumed on the beachside patio of the hotel. A beach vendor walks by and asks us all our names. Jason does the honours. "I'm bitch, that's miss thing, that's whore, and that's (pointing to me) madame rouge." We all laugh. (I had been faithfully applying my spf 30, but I think I was a bit red at that point of the trip.) Half an hour later, the vendor returns with a painted seashell bearing the name madame rouge. Uproarious laughter ensues; Jason peels out some money and buys me the shell from the vendor. It is still proudly displayed on a bookshelf in my apartment.

smog in October

Omigawd, Toronto is like, so international. Year-round smog, just like Athens, Los Angeles, or Beijing.

It's interesting to observe the enthusiasm of tv & radio weather reports. "Yes, we have a smog advisory in effect, but with the humidex, the temperature will feel just like summer!" This speaks to the desperation of Canadians for warm temperatures. It has to. I theorize that no one actually enjoys humidity. It's the psychological effect of having the "temperature" pushed up 5 or 10 C that these people like. Perception vs. reality. It's like Dubya extending Daylight Savings Time to "save energy." Or jamming the ruler into the flesh above the base of the...

Cameron Diaz and I are different

On a local Toronto station over the weekend, I caught part of an interview with Cameron Diaz. She was talking about self esteem, and how her parents probably gave her too much of it. I agree with her. I dare you to watch The Sweetest Thing and tell me with a straight face that there's zero per cent of Cameron Diaz in her hubristic character. (God, that movie frightened me. And reaffirmed my sexuality at the same time.)

I have too little self esteem. In this respect, Cameron Diaz and I are different.

shame spiral

I don't know whether it's what I ate this weekend (a bag of Doritos, an entire BP pizza, a half bucket of Fudgsicle ice cream, a box of Kraft Dinner), or my sleeping habits (up all night Friday, sleeping all day Saturday and Sunday), or my Friday get-together with someone I know is bad news (nearly incoherent on t...), or the picture of the ny state sheriff on the front page of a couple of local dailies today, but I am a complete mess.