While it's only 8:30 a.m. and my brain hasn't even come close to getting in gear - maybe around five this afternoon - I'm going to go ahead and put something down here. I have some Actual Paying Work to do tonight. Not as much as last week, just one piece, but the ol' creative juices have been a bit on the dry side lately.
I couldn't tell you why. The News has been fine, there's always some goofy shit there to write about. I'm just a bit drained here and, quite frankly, disinterested in the latest round of delusion by Trump dead-enders. Something about a DNI report on the way is the new hotness. I don't know and I don't care, coach, wake me up if it actually turns out to be something.
Today is the day James Booker was born and the day Hound Dog Taylor died. I share a birthday with the latter. Different years, obviously, but I was born the day he died. Unfortunately, I'm not quite as subtle and skillful a slide guitarist. Anyhow, I thought that was interesting. I understand if no one else does.
So much for now. It's time for breakfast.
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All comments are moderated, & may be discarded & ignored if so chose. Cry more & die, man.