Diagonally across from me, is the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints. (I think I've got their name right.)

In the opposite direction, and down the road a ways, are the Methodists.

Turn left, before you hit the Methodists, walk a while, and there's the Mosque.

Turn left, after the Mosque, walk a while, and you'll find the Roman Catholics.

Turn left, after the Roman Catholics, go around the block, enter my building, and in the apartment directly below, are devout Hindus.

I'm not a morning person.

About the only time I'm intimate with Dawn's crack, is when I've been up all night. This either happens after I've been working hard. Or drinking hard. At times like these, about all I want to do is crawl into bed, without waking up the wife.

(She, is not a morning person either.)

Just about the time I've accomplished this flannel-footed agility,
it starts.

Bells. Prayers. Bells. Prayers.

Some days, it makes for a bizzarely soothing combination of sound. And like all those vague, sleep deprived, early morning thoughts, I believe this incredible combination could happen only in India.

Other days, I think it's a bloody racket that makes me wish a plague of agnostics (I'm one, by the way.) would descend upon the land.

Then, come those days that are worst of all. When the construction crew at bloody Gold's Gym, across the road, decide to start tossing debris into a steel bed dump truck.

In a few days the idiots at Gold's Gym will open for business. There'll be loud, bad music, in the wee hours of the morning. And people, mostly over-weight, sweating in synchrony.

This, will happen on Sundays too.

Dawn, has never looked darker.



A year or two ago, a kind soul gave me a couple of discs.
Packed, to the gills, with reading material.
("Finest kind." to quote Richard Hooker.)

I accepted them, with about all the grace of a migraine hit rhinoceros.
Then, put them away and forgot all about them.

About a week ago, bereft of all literary stimuli, I dug them out, and spun them up.

And found salvation.

I met two absolutely unforgettable people.
Spider Jerusalem; the writer I wish I was.
And Dream; proof that the word is actually 'protagonist' and not 'hero'.

So, without further ado (and long overdue) thank you, pi.

The drinks are on me, amigo.

Bacardi Time

Putumayo has some wicked reggae compilations.

I'm sure the more hip, have already heard them.
For those who haven't, they are world reggae compilations.
Not just the Jamaican variety.

And though I don't understand many of the songs (I don't speak Arabic, for instance.) they certainly do a grand job of stimulating the rum glands.

WARNING: Listening to this music on a sunny day in an office with the windows open, is conducive to no work getting done. It may cause hallucinations of palm trees and sunny beaches. It may arouse the thirst with a vengeance.


The Renaissance Is Aparently Upon Us

Funny, nobody told me. But apparently, this is the bloke in charge.

Can you imagine referring to YOURSELF as a "new age Renaissance man"? To quote Mastercard, it's priceless.