I'm mostly concentrating my energies these days on my annual winter depression. This year's is going pretty well, and we're projecting that I should enter the bottommost level of despair during the first week of February.

Okay, so hardly anybody bought my book. What, you can’t pull together $13.95, plus shipping and handling, to help a brother out?

My book came out at the end of January, but hardly anybody noticed. I could not have been more embarrassed.

One of the things that I think that I am is "chill." You know: mellow, kick-back, cool. When I tell people that I know pretty well that I think of myself as being pretty chill, they tend to look at me incredulously, as if I’m being completely deluded.

This thing is so funny.

I’m going on the theory that hearing is overrated and that, one day, somebody will invent replacement eardrums; they’ll probably have them at Costco.

Bush may be the most isolated president in modern history, at least since the late-stage Richard Nixon.

I bought this song off of iTunes yesterday, and in the first twenty-six hours that I've owned it, I’ve played it thirty-nine times. I don’t think that I’ll ever get tired of it.

Maybe you're driving by a beautiful orange orchard, and it somehow makes you wistful. Maybe it’s late and you're the only car on a rarely used country road and it’s starting to rain and the melancholia that seems to follow you everywhere is making itself manifest.

Now, I don’t love anything in this world except three things: corduroy pants, existential despair, and barbecue.