You may never get to touch the Master, but you can tickle his creatures.

Shit is real M.I.A. 'round here, and I don't mean the Sri Lankan singer or RAMBO. Actually, I do mean RAMBO. Anyway. It happens. I forget about the blog, or just don't feel like it most days. But, I'll try more in the future. Especially because Ozzie gets linked, and people seem to read it. Still. Which mystifies me. Because you could be listening to Tim Kinsella right now, bathing in the triumphal splendor of the Make Believe record that came out last Tues. Hometeam on some Edgar Cayce blue highways, y'all. Fate is knocking on the door. Did you read the thing in A.P.? I never laughed so hard in all my life. I LOVE THAT GUY.

Fantasy Baseball ended rather drably. 4th, 6th, 6th in the various Yahoo leagues. Josh tattooed my ass right out of the "Baseball Club" playoffs by the second week of "post-season" play. For a guy with access to a computer for less than an hour a day for most of the summer, totally without ESPN, Comcast Sports Net or access to Hawk Harrelson's "greased tee", that isn't too bad, I guess. I'm not playing fantasy football or basketball this fall/winter, because I'm trying to "have a life", which includes such gordian concepts as "going out with friends" or "meeting friends at the bar and watching them get drinky crow" and flirting with female representatives of my "peer group" at "parties" which might lead to acts generally consistent with or precipitating an (albeit) drastically amended form of "propagation of the species". My only make out partner the last few months has been the couch, where I fell asleep reading Spengler's Decline of the West on Thursday night and drooled on the armrest.

I'm a reading maniac now. Pure bookstore zen. I just hold a book in my hand and the ol' subconscious munches leitmotifs like a little bunny munching lettuce heads in the garden of heavenly deeeeee-lites. 2 minutes remaining on the terminal. Be back soon. XOXO.



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