Today was good enough, but non-descript.  I need to write more.  And read more.  And have more adventures.  And spend more time with the mothafuckin’ loved ones.

N.P.: “Highway Star – Belter Version” – Cory Todd

Greeting, dear reader, from the last bastion of free thought and speech.  Today was a fine day: no air conditioning needed, the word count was reasonable, and I successfully mediated a violent dispute between Bath Salts the squirrel and several somewhat assholish blackbirds.

N.P.: “Men Without Shame” – Phantom, Rocker & Slick

Needed a break from the Jungle Juice, so I made my first batch of Irish Iced Tea today…not bad at all for a first attempt.

I miss the Wild Boys and Interzone.  America could use a dose of the Wild Boys right about now.  Well, scratch that…I don’t know what the fuck America needs anymore, nor do I really care: unless there’s a sudden course correction, I’m afraid Americans might be a lost cause.  But I digress…apologies, dear reader.  But I feel better about the general state of things knowing there is someone like Bill Lee is sending regular reports from Interzone.
I have an idea.

N.P.: “Dirty Water” – The Inmates

Today was okay, but I think tomorrow will be better.  I might (finally) be getting into a truly effective work flow routine involving the shed, the studio, and the various projects that are always in the orbit.  It still needs to be tweaked a bit, but I’m getting close to a really cool balance between the various aspects of my weird existence.  Which, if it happens, will be a very welcome relief.

N.P.: “Turn Up That Dial” – Dropkick Murphys

Today was almost an entirely pleasant day.  It’s been so long since that has happened that it was more than halfway over before I realized what an okay day it was.  Bonus: it might be repeatable.  We’ll see tomorrow.

N.P.: “All Shook Up” – Robert Palmer

Today was a pretty decent day around The Haunt.  Not a lot of writing got done, but progress was made in other areas.

N.P.: “Whacked” – Alabama 3

I watched an hour of something called cornhole today.  I didn’t know that it was a competitive sport and I was expecting something very different.

N.P.: “A Little Less Conversation” – Guitar Shorty

The writing shed is now officially a tiki bar.  Or at least it’s got an official tiki bar in it.  Which is badass.  I’m like Don Fucking Draper: minibar as standard office furniture.  Anytime anyone comes in, even at 9:45am, you say, “Can I get you something?” and stand up, take two steps to the bar, and prepare two glasses.  “But it’s 9:45 in the morning,” your non-writer guests may protest.  “Which means all the problems of the day are yet to come,” you retort.  “Might as well get out in front of it now, while we still can.  Whiskey, isn’t it?”  Fuck yes, whiskey.
Sorrym dear reader…I almost got carried away there.  I simply meant to say that I have a tiki bar.  I also wrote some stuff.

N.P.: “El Paso Sugar” – Lance Lopez

A sober and boring day.  Not a single adventure.  Wrote a bit…that was good.  But that’s about it.

N.P.: “Your Fandango” – Todd Rundgren, Sparks