I woke up at 3:21 this morning, and I was reading The Brothers Karamazov by 3:43. At 4:21 the SF Chronicle arrived, and I was done reading it at 4:42. My coffee was ready at 4:48, and I hit page 400 at 5:03. Nicole and Amy came downstairs at 5:59, and they left for the hospital at 6:12. The boys arrived downstairs a minute later. The waffles popped at 6:18, and I poured the milk. The baby sitter arrived three minutes early at 6:27, and I left for school at 6:37. All times are Pacific Standard. I feel a cold sore coming on.

I'm tired of pictures. I've always prefered words, but I ain't got no time no more. Sometimes I wonder if the "the grass is always greener" is the truest of all cliches. Tonight, that sounds right.

Most folks reduce the stereotypical midlife crisis to pathetic and futile attempts at regaining youth. I see it as awakening from habitual slumber and remembering to live, without changing your hair.

The December frost killed my garden. Fuck the December frost.

Here's to digging through dollar bins in strange attics. Fucking afternoon bliss.

I'm desperately trying to stay awake until 9, but I'm failing. This is the result.

Listen to Entombed. Preferably Uprising. And for the love of God, turn that folkie shit off.

Teel collapse.

No Giant hope.

Monte hope, but he goes alone.

The Black Lips, with a producer, could be the new Rolling Stones. But there are no more Rolling Stones, so the Black Lips are just the Black Lips, and that's just fine.

Gavin's news cycle- 4 days. Even Matier got bored. Even Matier.

Chron desperately looking for steroids up Danielle Steel's botoxed writing wrist. They'll settle for amphetamines up that Komodo Dragon's jaw. Heard he died of AIDS...

Did Dmitri kill Daddy K.? I can't remember.

The grass is always greener.