It's...Monday. I guess. Hey.
Look, don't come in here looking for insights or sensibilities. I don't have any.
It's Elliott Smith's birthday. That's significant in the sense that he has greatly, immensely, influenced my life. Waltz #2 was stuck in my head all morning, well before I realized it was his birthday. I've been listening to the mix that the Wizard made me 2 1/2 years ago for a week now. Maybe more. Mixes are rare, and really good mixes take talent that only comes from best friends like Janelle, and Wizards like Johnny. They make me ashamed of those I've made in my time. I owe the mix-tape world. I do. My transitions pale in comparison.
Otherwise, though. It was Monday, and there are always Mondays. No one gives a damn about Mondays spent in cubicles. Or wasted days in general...one cares about days of accomplishment, because those are the days that stick, yeah?
It's transitioned from Elliott to Bjork, to The Decemberists. Who cares.
Radiohead happened momentarily.
I'm still here.
I was on a Paris train
I emerged in London rain
and you were waiting there
swimming through apologies...
I'm glad she's mine, I'm glad she's mine...
You don't often see your neighbors in underpants, do you?
It's nice to realize the people you see and love are more like you than you think they might be. That there's a girl in her tank and underpants cooking dinner, while a boy in cargo shorts stumbles out of the bedroom. And they shut the blinds so you mind your own damned business.