At around 8:00 I slide out, "check the plumbing," feed Regis and let him out, feed Kramer and make coffee. Okay, some of those things my wife does. Like, oh... all of them except the plumbing part. But I'm always careful to tell her how good that coffee tastes, so get off my back.
Then it's to the laptop for blog-hopping and a news update. I generally read about 30 blogs during the course of the day, migrating from the hard news to the goofy/entertaining ones as I go.
Then I finish coffee, shower, dress and get into the studio by 9:30 or 10. This ritual is fairly important to me, and I must say if something crops up to disturb it, I'm just not myself that day.
Today is one of those days. The only time they can do an oil change on my car is 11 am. ELEVEN. AM. Could it get any worse? It breaks up my session times, puts my day in a lurch, screws up my tea on the veranda, and forces me take another one of those little pills the doctor told me would make things alright. WHY, oil man? WHY!?!?!
Side note: I should point out I'm completely capable of changing my own oil, but the lease on my car prohibits me from doing it. The dealership must do it, and they never charge for routine maintenance. But thanks for just assuming I was an incapable hack.
Oh sure, I'm fine now, but I wanted you to know up front... later today I will be a different person. Maybe not on the surface, but after the ritual-disruption there will be unpredictable undercurrents.
This weekend is the annual weekend-long Masters Tournament party at the Morris compound. I know what you're thinking, try to contain yourself. It's five buddies who will use any excuse to burn brats, smoke cigars and drink beer. There will be bursts of personal body gas, scratching and cussing. Lying and bullshit will abound.
Sounds fun, huh? (and word to my friend Greg - Vijay is on fire this year, my "benjamin" says he's the man)
I reserve most evenings at around 9 or 10 to visit the blog of a real writing genius, a throwback to the old west. He's a squinty-eyed modern-day gunslinger named Latigo Flint. Please bookmark his site and go back often. He's a gentleman and a thigh-slapping iron-shucker. A real mother-shucker, too.
The pope's funeral was this morning, a full week after he died. Probably Correct pointed out the grisly truth about the customary embalming procedure Papal bodies undergo after death. Did they REALLY have to close down the viewing to apply more makeup so you couldn't tell the Pope was decomposing already? How gross is that?
I was told the other day that Catholics don't believe in cremation because you will have to use your body again when it's time to... uh, I guess go to heaven. I wonder if that's true. And what about the billions of people who have been dead for hundreds of years and whose bodies are now soil?
I suppose we're not supposed to question those things. Sorry.