Sunday: The day of Easter Bla Bla

The sky is clear, but the air is cold. And that cold air busted me up when I tried to run today. Friggin' winter, go away already. It hangs around like a visitor that has overstayed its welcome. Deb was in Flint Friday and Saturday. We held the fort down reasonably well. Today she got home. It's Easter, so we went out to eat at Johnny Carino's. I had spaghetti.

I finished reading On Writing, by Stephen King. Damn good book. It gave clear advice from a guy who has made a boat-load of money writing books.

I bought a new machine for work. I'm starting to get SATA drives, and my 400MHZ Gateway with the IDE controllers can't cut the mustard. I have a converter that works half the time but the transfer rate is for shit and it takes forever to rescue a client's first season of "Desperate Housewives" iTunes files. So I got a new machine.

My March Madness bracket is in the can already, but as of this writing, Brian is on top by three points.

I keep telling myself, spring warm-up is just around the corner, but I'm starting to have my doubts.

I'm still working on my newest bestseller. I'm 90 typewritten pages in and counting.

Rush's "The Fountain of Lamneth" from "Caress of Steel" is a mere 19:58 minutes of geeky fantasy-rock goofiness, but it is still pretty good. I got the iTunes on shuffle.

Well, if you've read this far, I've got to give you credit for hanging in there. This is a hefty blog post, and I appreciate you reading this last sentence.

Oh yeah, Billy Thorp's "Children of the Sun" just came on. I must stop typing now and commence air-guitar. There is nothing more pathetic than a 41 year old man doing air-guitar in his tiny office.

Angel Hair Pasta: The Horrible Truth

I will never eat “angel hair pasta.” I’ll tell you why: I saw a show on the Discovery channel where they explained how they harvest angel hair. Yes, angel-hair pasta is actually made out of the hair of angels.

There is a lot of preparation involved with killing an angel: First, they forge crossbow bolts from the iron collected from the wrecks of cars where teenagers have died in late-night, country-road accidents fueled by alcohol and wide-eyed innocence. Then they dip those crossbow bolts in the tears of children kept in abusive after-school child-care facilities.

After that, sexually abused adult alter-boys with questionable hygiene climb peaks in the Andes Mountains and wait. The angels, unaware that they are in danger, often fly around mountain passes playing their harps, because they are bored out of their minds from an eternity of problem-free existence, and no cable television.

Finally, the alter boys shoot the angles with their crossbows. When the angels fall to the ground, their heads are shaved and the hair is taken to the angel hair pasta factory and turned into angel hair pasta.

That’s why I will never eat angel hair pasta.