Eating Pizza Makes My Mustache Smell Like Vomit

This year has felt very strange at work. Just...strange. 'Tis neither bad nor good. Whatever.

Tying up a few loose ends:

I finished Infinite Jest about 2 weeks ago. As always, I immediately wanted to go back to the beginning and start reading it again. I refrained, and instead have been reading A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again. I think, come January, I shall start reading Don Delillo's White Noise. Why not.

For the last few days I have regretted writing about interest rates in my last post. I do not want to be the type of person who blogs about interest rates. I also do not want to be the type of person who thinks very often about interest rates. I would guess that thinking about money is at the root of a lot of the troubles and worries and problems in the world, and that's a tub of crap into which I do not want to throw my hat. So instead I'm going to think about getting some sort of electronic drum kit and working on making it sound like a real drum kit. Also going to put thought into the set I'm working on, and how to make it nice. And how to make it cheaply. It's fun to think about wood.

Yesterday the Jeanners and I went to a memorial service for T. Long, who was a close friend of MAW's and who we didn't know super-well, but we had hung out a few times, and I had come to really like his work as a director and an actor. Plus, he just seemed like an all-around good and interesting guy. Mid-forties. Sudden heart attack. I thought the memorial service was well done, and a few people said some very nice things. And it's hard to be at a memorial service for someone who died suddenly, and to be listening to the things people were saying, and not think about the way in which you live your life, and the things people would say about you if you died tomorrow. I think that pretty much I don't care what people might say about me, as long as they were able to say 2 things: I loved my friends and I loved the J-Dog. And that I did those things well. I think that when it comes down to it, those are the only 2 things in the world I care about. And interest rates.

I would also like to take this opportunity to publicly (and perhaps inappropriately) request that no Josh Groban be played at my funeral. Stick to Tom Waits.

Also, I would like to be buried at sea.

Also, if there is a funeral before I am buried at sea, I would like to be wearing a wig when I am laid out. Color and style unimportant.

I think that those are all the post-mortum requests that I have at the moment.

Tomorrow: Nachos and Beer with Bewley. Jealous, aren't you.