Have you ever had one of those days where you have this vague feeling of dread, like something bad happened that you don’t know about, or it’s happening? I've felt like that since last week, ever since I figured out what a big production the West Coast Museum Tour was going to have to be if I want to get to all of the best West Coast museums.

Poker Problem: Why must God destroy everything that I love?

The set-up: Why did the doctor ask the nurse for more lotion?

The Punch Line: I want to die. 

A priest, a rabbi, and a monk walk into a bar. They look at each other and sense that they are mere pawns in a situation that is beyond their control.

We've all been high at one time or another. Some of us were young when we first started. These people were rich or had connections. We hated those people. Others of us were scared to get high and managed to put it off for a long time.

The first time that I got high was in 1999. The transaction had been set up by somebody else, who shall remain anonymous, but we had to get to Los Angeles to complete the deal. We get to the place, and it's swarming with people, which made me a little nervous, but I was already plenty nervous for other reasons. Would I freak out? What were the chances that I could die? What was the food going to be like? Right at the end, there was some confusion as to whether we were at the right place, but everything worked out and the airplane took off on time.

I'm a poet, so people think that I'm sensitive and caring and "wise." The fact is that, except for crying inconsolably during commercials for life insurance, I'm as insensitive as a Republican at a homeless shelter.

I will be travelling this summer. There will be driving and staying in hotels (the cheaper, the better) and going into museums and looking at the art contained within the museums and then thinking about the art and then going to the next museum. The trip will start in San Diego, California (a six-hour trip from where I live) and end in Vancouver, British Columbia, and I'll be stopping at as many art museums as I can.

Content. I've got to get some content up on this motherf@*$%r. I've got to get eyeballs to my site and then keep them. The more you come here, the cooler you will think I am, and, next thing you know, you're clicking on the little rectangle on the (in the?) lower right-hand corner of this page, thinking, "This guy is pretty funny; let's see what's up with the book."

Let's be honest; everybody has a blog now. There's no real reason to read another one. There's hardly a reason to be writing one. But...here I am. Why? Because there's a niche to fill. Since nobody has chosen to write about/for me, I guess that I'll have to pick up the slack. Lazy-ass America. 

The whole conviction of my life now rests upon the belief that
loneliness, far from being a rare and curious phenomenon, is the
central and inevitable fact of human existence.