mea culpa, mea ranta, mea rava

I can count on one (okay maybe two) hands the number of times I’ve made fun of someone (other than Larry) on this web site. But every once in awhile I’ll throw judgment to the wind and post something without asking myself one critical question: if the person I’m writing about reads this, will I be able to look them in the eye? In my last post I poked fun at some of the copy written by one of our freelancers, and I think this may have caused hurt feelings.

I hate that. 

Hate hate hate it. 


So, I deleted that post. And I apologize to the writer, who was just doing his or her job as instructed. 

Also, WHAT KIND OF AN IDIOT WRITES ABOUT HER WORK ON THE INTERNET?

See: Me (N.)

No worries, though. I think that habit’s going to take some time to break.

Baby steps.

On another note, would you like to smell my head? Because it smells like a dirty ashtray.

Larry played a gig at the Five Spot last night, and I am still twitching from the three hours of inhaling second hand smoke.

Five years ago, when I was still eating a bowl of Marlboros for breakfast every morning, I LOATHED people like me. Prissy people who were all, “Eeew, it’s too smoky in heeere. Eeew. I can’t breeeeathe. Eeew. You’re going to get cancer.” But this was me last night.

Good job. Loved that guitar solo. Let’s get the hell out of here before we all drop dead."

Oh, and speaking of cancer … Patrick gave me a mammogram this morning. WITH HIS FOOT. So that was comfortable. Do your kids do this? Crawl into bed with you every morning at the crack of dawn and then jump all over the place with a total disregard for the fact that you are a human being with feelings and NERVE ENDINGS?  In stock photography, the “family bed” looks like so much fun! “Hello! Look at our typical American family in our typical crisp white pajamas and crisp white sheets and not-calloused feet just enjoying each other."

What you can't hear is the typical American mother growling under her breath, "OW. THAT WAS MY TIT."