THURSDAYS ARE FOR SULKIN' AND COMPLAININ'

Whatta bummer of a day.

Given that I take one hour (and sometimes more) to make my Forrest Gump-like powerwalks, I'm granted that time for reflection, pondering and sometimes exersion of frustrative energy. It's nice how that sometimes works out. Maybe you've noticed a difference since I've been walking. Maybe not. The longer I walk, usually, the better I feel. For that reason, I give my full endorsement to at least an hour of intense, strenuous exersion of energy daily.

Also important to listen to at least 30 minutes of jazz a day. This morning was Ornette Coleman. Dude was sick. Sick as in slick.

Anyhow, it would figure I'd be listening to Ornette today because, in reality, his music is so free-form, it's downright frustrating sometimes. There's no reason to worry for my well-being. It's just that there weren't enough footsteps in my walking today and I had a little of the ragin' fiery fury left in me. And the bowel movement didn't help like I think it would have. So here goes nothing.

I'm really tired of Anna Nicole Smith. I'm not really sure what the trial's about because, well, I tune out. Did they ever figure out who the father was? Have the finally buried her poor soul? Do I really care? Who makes this top news? Wasn't there a war going on? It's been a while since I've spoken to Clint. If it weren't for the Grammys, the music industry could've had its worst week in ages. Certainly since I've had my nose crammed up it's behind. Here's to SXSW for holding all the surprises until its too late to make any kinda plans. Nas and Ghostface will probably just have to wait until...uh...never. Oh well. It's getting warm again which means the backsweat is rearing it's ugly head again when I wear my backpack. Must make an assessment on whether or not to wear the backpack, but then again, the backpack plays a pretty integral role on the walks because it gives me resistance. If I drop the backpack, I just need to stop walking or otherwise I'll look like someone in need of a ride. The backpack says, "Nah, don't worry. I got it." I need to cut the soft drinks out of my diet again. They'll kill me softly. Cokes really clog up the pores. Someone needs to sign Chingo Bling. Someone said the other day that they haven't bought any music lately because there's nothing new out that they wanted to hear. I guess they had heard all the music that's been produced within the last eighty years and that wasn't good enough for them either. You know, there's this new band called Parliament. They're pretty tight. I don't particularly like loud people. I mean, I like loud music, I like loud clothing, I kinda even think loud dogs are cool, but I'm not really fond of loud people. No, take that back. I can stand loud, I just don't like assholes. Definitely a difference there. I went to a bar the other night to watch this kid play guitar. He was awesome, but I realized that I was there during Fat Tuesday and that's why people were wearing stupid hats and beads. Fat Tuesday is typically celebrated as the last hurrah before entering lent, but I imagine those people are going to be there this weekend too doing the same thing. I'll give up soft drinks for lent. Perfect. Dennis Johnson, the Celtic great, died today at the age of 52. That's just a serious bummer. I heard that Wal-Mart was ditching their upscale strategy and instead is focusing on global domination, oops, I mean expansion. Someone really thought that customers would come to Wal-Mart for sushi and name brand clothing? C'mon, I want the real Wal-Mart when I shop there. The depressing, exploitative, downtrodden social vacuum that is the blue and white. Sushi just masks the real sadness. In fact, sushi is a mask for itself. It's still seafood. That company really is run by nincompoops. But, remember, their heart's in the right place when it comes to music. The industry really owes Wal-Mart everything. I mean, after all, here's a place that'll sell ammo for firearms, but won't sell an explicit compact disc. They'll sell picture frames assembled by a 8-year old in Cambodia who is paid three lima beans for every fourth unit manufactured, but they won't carry the new Young Jeezy record unedited because of its violent contents and drug references. Wal-Mart--they don't cross the fine line, they invented it. I'm turning thirty in March. Crap. Does that mean my hair will fall out and I'll start saying, "dad gummit"? Oh wait, I already do that. I gotta do laundry. I gotta shave. I got jury duty on Monday morning. I kinda hope they pick me because I've always wanted to experience the judicial process. With my lovely wife working a juvenile facility and, formerly, at a maximum security prison, I doubt my chances of serving are very good.

Clint, I bought Departed today. I figured if its a quarter as good as you claim it is, it's worth the investment. Hot Buttered Soul needs a reissue. I think I'll make it happen somehow. You're on quite a streak, my friend. Dale and I sat and listened to Hot Buttered Soul last weekend and we just sat there like goofballs and sang, "Walk On By."

Alright, that's it. Go buy a record that's at least 30 years old and was not recorded by the Clash, Elton John, Led Zeppelin, Rolling Stones, Pink Floyd, the Beatles or Jefferson Airplane. Buy someone you never heard of. And buy it on vinyl. And if you see Buddy Miles' More Miles Per Gallon, drop twenty for it. You'll thank me.