wickedflea: (mr. nose)
[personal profile] wickedflea
Read some Ham on Rye today. Bukowski fits my mood pretty well right now. Whenever you think your life is going to shit, read some Bukowski, and it'll give you some perspective.

I really don't care who wins the Super Bowl--which is good, 'cuz it doesn't look like anyone's ever going to score. For a few minutes over the last few weeks I sorta kinda halfway jumped on the Patriots bandwagon, but I've soured. I'm a Steelers fan, and the Pats have knocked them out of the playoffs at least once in the past few years, so fuck those jokers. But I have no reason to cheer for the Panthers either. So why am I watching? Cuz I'm an AMERICAN, that's why.

I'm watching a lot of college basketball lately. Usually it's not a real good sign when I'm paying a lot of attention to sports, but what the hell. My Mississippi State Bulldogs are 18-1 and 7-1 in the SEC. We (OK, they) have lost only one game, to Kentucky on a last-second shot. (Of course, that was the one MSU game that I've been able to see on TV.) If MSU won a national championship in a major sport, I don't know what would happen. It would undoubtedly upset some cosmic balance. Which might be a good thing.

Damn, Pats scored. I knew my saying anything against them would bring them good luck. Oh well, drink up, New Englanders.

I haven't done laundry in about three weeks, and I'm completely out of clean clothes that I'd consider wearing. And of course all the machines are in use. Fargin' icehole corksuckin' bastiges. Fuck it, I'll just show up to work tomorrow wearing jammie bottoms and my Jesus Lizard shirt. Yeah.



Ooooh, nice score by the Panthers! Drink up, New Englanders.

Date: 2004-02-02 09:26 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] theodicy.livejournal.com
Read some Ham on Rye today. Bukowski fits my mood pretty well right now. Whenever you think your life is going to shit, read some Bukowski, and it'll give you some perspective.

True dat. I once tried to get Annie Dillard to agree with me, but she was publicly rude in return. And STILL WRONG, twenty years later.

Bukowski, RIP.

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