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I have never been drunk on alcohol. But Tussionex™ baby... that shit's da chronic. Those who bore witness to my personal spiritual vision quest last night at the record store after donning a Napoleon Dynamite trucker cap (bill turned rakishly sideways) and $3 Bono-style wrap-around shades and proceeded to leap upon the help desk table and lead a minor chorus of "Whoop That Trick" from Hustle & Flow over the store bullhorn probably put down their peace-pipes and peyote buttons and paid quiet, reverent props to my obvious mad enlightenment. But who gives a tutti-frutti... I'm mooooved, you sucka MC's! Two endless weeks of hair-graying stress over, and when one is stressed for that long a period of time how does one even remember how to relax and unwind again? By taking mind-bending soporifics that make you believe that you can put your hand right through your ghostly intangible co-workers, that's how. Although said co-workers appeared to grow irritated of my persistent hand-passing experiments after the first two or three tries.

But what really finally puts my wee bean at peace is the absolute, utter silence of the place. No jet noise. No screaming neighbors through the tissue-thin walls. No car alarm chorus in the parking lot every morning at 6am. No jets flying so low and close that it actually sets off the car alarm chorus every morning. Again, I want to emphasize, NO JET NOISE. Friends of mine who live or lived near the beach, you know what I am talking about. My God, to wake every morning at actually hear birds singing. To sit here right now in nothing but my fuzzy socks and pajama bottoms and have little else but the hypnotic hum of the ceiling fan overhead in my ears... oh, OH! And to no longer live so near the oceanfront right before tourist season kicks in this summer with all the traffic and noise and... and the noise, and... Oh sweet Jesus, was that a twinkle of my long-lost sanity I just experienced? After having taken leave of my senses for nearly 9 years in jet-fuel saturated obstreperous limbo, I'm feeling normalcy slowly, cautiously seep back in again and for once I think I might actually embrace it completely for a change.

So anyway, yes, I love my new place. Still loads of unpacking to do, and lotsa trips to goodwill with old clothes and books and whatnot. But it's coming together, er, sort of. That is when I'm in the mindset to unpack. I just got a brand new king-sized bed and all I ever feel like doing right now is just sprawling out across it. But I did manage to weigh down a wobbly bookshelf by using all of the 2-ton 3-ring binders full of Joe's sports card collection as bottom-shelf ballast all before 9am this morning, so I consider that counting for doing something productive today.

So anyway I do hope to be getting back to music/movie talk within the week now that I'm mostly done with the everyday-life bitchery that understandably glazes over your eyes, but there is one thing I wanted to mention, something that I found while cleaning out my old apartment.

A stack of old papers that appear to be a hundred or so pages of my old blog printed out about a year or so before I deleted it back in May of last year. From about 2002 through 2004.

Now I realize that a find like this has little importance to anyone besides myself, but for me it really was like finding weird little artifacts from my past even though it was all mostly goofy-ass music trivia and minutiea from my years working at Ticketmaster and Fantasy and Wherehouse. But at least I had music to talk about back then, or at least I did in between all the whinging about work and buddy-list stalking Vance DeGeneres in every other post. I also noticed how much funnier I was back then. I'll be the first to tell you that I'm more than certain I lost a lot of my funny along the way, and maybe more than 60% from early last year alone. Man, last year was a rough ride, blog-wise that is.

In other words when things get dry around here, which is pretty much par for the course, I may attempt to entertain by re-posting some of those past entries here for my own your amusement, to laugh at my abysmal prose, to remember what a brainless nitwit I'm sometimes capable of being, and more than likely just to not have to come up with anything new or interesting on the spot because I'm a lazy sod. Plus I need all the time and energy I can get to tidy up this guest room so that Leslie can come visit. Or if we ever get back into booking bands again maybe get Pansy Division to squeeze onto the single mattress together in one big happy boy-bundle like they did last time. Aw, that was adorable.

I suppose it's time to put on a damn bra and get my knuckles crackin'. Uhh, right after another sprawl over the damn fine new king-sized bed again...