July 20, 2004
4:13pm Tuesday

YOU KNOW THE NUMBERS, SHOW ME THE KNUCKLES, BABY

Two weeks! We have to wait two whole weeks to bring him home! I can't stand it, I can't stand it.

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There's just nothing like discovering a new kick-ass song, and therefore I must wholeheartedly recommend "Welcome To The North" by The Music. Good luck finding it, though, especially if you're on a Mac and live in the US. I can't believe I missed them when they played the Troubadour. Just stupid, stupid. Wait, wait, not so stupid! They're back on August 16th! This will go along perfectly with my concert-buying binge lately! Yesterday I bought tickets to The Killers at The Galaxy Theater and also Trash Can Sinatras tickets for the Troubadour on October 8th. The problem is that I'm supposed to be out of town on both those dates, but who knows what can happen. Worst-case scenario, eBay's got my back.

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Today was the day the PSA was going out, but as if on cue, Final Cut Pro has stopped producing sound. This morning before Gray went to work he color corrected it, and everything was progressing swimmingly. Then he left, and I hit "print to tape" and it wouldn't, of course, because it doesn't know how to cooperate and is especially haughty during deadlines, but then the sound stopped working. Lots of strange things have gone haywire with Final Cut, and I daresay someone who is NOT an editor programmed it, but I've never lost sound entirely before. And now I have to do the electr0nic press kit for "Before Sunset", so all the Spots and Fidos in the backseats of their Southern California cars must bake and broil for yet another day.

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This afternoon while driving back from Costco, where I bought a very fancy Cuisinart ice cream maker in which I am going to attempt the making of homemade peach ice cream tomorrow (but I don't know how I'll in good conscience be able to pour in two quarts of heavy cream and one cup of whole milk, my GOD), I had the misfortune of driving behind a humongous SUV with an unusual sticker on its back window. I squinted to make sure I was reading it right, and sure enough --

If your (sic) gonna ride my ass,
why don't you pull my hair?

And I thought, good Lord. I drove past the car as it erratically zoomed and swerved and screeched to a halt behind someone turning in the lane next to me, and saw that it was a gigantic black man with a pick in his afro driving. I looked away fast, totally offended by the sticker. I mean, did he put it there? Did his wife put it there? Was it the errata-inducing drugs that made him buy it and paste it on his rear window? I mean, come on, "your"? Doesn't he know his important message is getting all lost in the misspelling?