Black sails in the moonlight, black patch on your eye, you shiver your timbers, baby, and I'll shiver mine

I'm finally sick of the rain and its arbitrary, violent appearances. Almost every day this week, I've been caught in it, usually during a run, and I've come to the conclusion that Mother Nature, an entity I now believe exists, has a sophisticated sense of cruelty. Anyway, I don't know where I'm going with this. I just want it to stop raining.

I was talking with Anne this morning at work about the Wilco t-shirt she was wearing. She told me they're her favorite band and has seen them live numerous times. It occurred to me that the last three women I've been interested in---Miss Anonymous, Mara, and Ann, who, I'd think about asking out if I were single---have been into Wilco. I found out Miss A. was a fan when she quoted some of their lyrics during an online chat. They were from a song I didn't recognize (may as well state for the record my own opinion of Wilco: I like them more than Cold Play and 35% less than the Flying Burrito Brothers. Whatever that means.) I found out Mara was a fan during breakfast one morning. She had her Ipod on shuffle and a song of theirs I didn't recognize came on.

So, is there something to this? Am I drawn to women who like Wilco? Maybe, but they're a pretty popular band and the chances that I'll meet people who enjoy them are fairly high. Now, if it was American Music Club, a band I like better, that these three were into, well, then we'd be on to something. I'd have to marry them.

Regular readers of mine know that, despite my deeply poetic and classy rendering of the English language, I'm occasionally--well, maybe more than occasionally--given to crassness and vulgarity. I won't apologize for this-- I grew up on the brutal and unforgiving streets of Chelmsford and that was the way we talked. But, I do understand that my forays into the low speech may be disturbing to those of you who have lived privileged and sheltered existences. And I also understand that when I bring it to you loose and raw, you get turned on a bit, too. I'm not your therapist, so I'm not going to get into all that. What I'd like to do is dispense with the formality and introduce a new segment that may be vulgar and crass called "Fuck You". It will probably never see the light of day after this, but who knows-- maybe it'll stick. Here goes.

FUCK YOU to the girl who almost slammed into me as I was crossing Willow st. today. I was halfway across when she turned onto the road hauling ass in her hulking SUV . She had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting me. She missed by a foot. I pointed at the crosswalk to let her know it was there in case she didn't see it, shook my head in disgust, and continued walking. She sat there in the middle of the road for about another minute. I kept looking back wondering what her fucking problem was.

FUCK YOU to those tiny, animated adds that appear on the screen while you're watching a show on TV. I guess, even though there are more now than ever, we need more commercials. Another reason not to watch TV.

FUCK YOU to the primary reason not to watch TV: 97% of it appeals to the lowest, and I mean lowest, common denominator. It takes me about twenty minutes to find something that even remotely stimulates my brain. And that's coming from someone who loves The Beverly Hillbillies and Hogan's Heroes. If I were the commander of an Alien fleet approaching Earth I would gladly, and with the fullest confidence, give the orders to annihilate. "We're doing the Universe a favor by obliterating this planet of stupid, senseless worms", I'd say. And then, once the act was done, I'd say "Let's go to my quarters, slip into the hot tub, and lose ourselves in erotic pleasures" to my sexy assistant Veronica.

FUCK YOU to this post. I'm out of here, bitches.