It goes: “You got to bring ass to get ass.”
There’s not a white boy like me alive who can say this without sounding like a genuine African-American. (Almost.) It is beautiful.
Heard on today’s Randi Rhodes Show.
Albert Hammond Jr. of The Strokes is the son of Albert Hammond, who recorded “It Never Rains in Southern California.”
I deliberately left the television OFF last night to save the best television of the week for later, so as not to kick off my first week back post-convention on a lip-doodling, junkie-like vegetation at the hands of the cathode nipple. That’s what Tivo is for. However, thanks to the kind folks at the Stern Fan Network and HuffPost, I already have a pretty good idea what’s going on at The West Wing. The Interweb is EVIL. Evil, I tells you.
I am back in the office today. My plant was dried up because I fergot to aks anyone to tend for her. But she got an extra dose of water and will soon get some plant food. I have already filled the recycle bin nearly to the brim with crap I didn’t have a chance to git rid of because I was too bizy with convention crap. I have begun on one or three top-urgent projects. I have posted a “see you next year” graphic at the convention website and am formulating a new Web strategy for next year’s convention and an off-the-wall marketing campaign involving the New Orleans Zephyrs.
I was definitely feeling the crush about a month out, definitely feeling it hard, as I’m sure a lot of us wuz. But it’s over, and it was a hell of a fuk of a good convention. That is awesome. And it makes you get back to your office full of new ideas and ambitions and excitement and junk. And that lasts about three weeks, tops. But I like convention because of this buzz. It’s pretty cool.
Just stop telling me what happens on The West Wing, and don’t give me ANYTHING on The Sopranos or Grey’s Anatomy, riiiiiight? And, also, comment spammers, ya’ll can give up now. These comments is moderated, riiiight? Riiiiiight?
The desert air isn’t good for people, I think. It really dries a person out. I drink the water and apply the lotion and Chap Stick, but man, one can’t help but feel like a sandpaper-face out here.
It is a good convention, the best, actually, by our most specific measurement of success—attendance is at 4,150-some and counting. I am tired already. It is fun to run the raffle machine, but it is exhausting.
I think I flew in with Paula Poundstone, D.C. to L.A. She was nodding off at the gate and just about didn’t wake up in time, and I told her I was about to nudge her awake. If she wasn’t Paula Poundstone, she was her twin sister.
I look forward to getting home where there is actual moisture in the air and to a point where I am no longer in convention season and can be a reasonable human being again.
Time to go do some more conventioneering.