Every few years I give piano jazz another chance. I have friends whose cheerleading for this vile branch of popular music is relentless, and the feeling that I'm missing out on something slowly builds and needs release every so often by the application of a brutal dose of reality. So I listened to an hour or so on the radio this morning--really, really early this morning, since the station's programmers have the good sense not to cause the majority of its listeners to vow angrily to withhold their contribution from next year's fundraiser. Piano jazz reminds me of nothing so much as the doodling I used to do on the margins of my pad during interminable, boring meetings at work (no aspersion intended at any particular workplace; I could have worked at a Lap Dance Training Center, and once the hour milestone was reached in any given meeting, I would begin lazily obliterating any notes I had taken with little cubes and starbursts and scathing caricatures of the higher-ups.) Beginning, often, with a hoary old standard, the pianist slowly becomes bored and lapses into indolent filigrees, notes tumbling out like a cascade of Chiclets, full of C dim7 and A sus4, signifying nothing. There is no discernible passion to it, to my ears. When I want piano jazz, I'll travel back to Professor Longhair, and revel in his raucous outbursts of energy. So now my pipes are cleaned, my prejudices are comfortably replenished, and I can relax for another few years.

This is a bona fide 2009 storefront in NoBra (North of Brambleton, a neglected but visually rich little commercial stretch of Granby Street (anchor store: Bob's Gun Shop.))

This particular ancestor appears to have a greatly elongated right arm. I could hazard a guess as to how that happened: excessive churning of yak butter as a teenager. Why, what were you thinking?

View larger here.

Pud is my favorite thing to do. And it's your least favorite. Do you perceive a connection there? Because I don't.

If you insist, you can view larger right here.

I can't imagine political campaign seasons getting any worse, but every year they do. They're like the Bizarro Olympics. And it's one area where Republicans and Democrats are equally heinous. There is absolutely no way you could tell from their campaigns alone which is the better candidate in any given race. It's a disgrace. And it's our disgrace. They wouldn't pull this shit if it didn't work. We get what we deserve. And we in Virginia must have been really naughty this year.

So after voting, I went out on the porch and drew cat bowls. Whether the Republicans or the Democrats are in power, the cats need their food and water. I need to remind myself of that.

Celery

The spokeswoman of couples, Cindy Guagenti, offers a "No Comment" constant; on the voices.. Actress the Angelina Jolie has confirmed the relationships that are pregnant after that showed outside of its collision of the child to the 2008 Film Independent Spirit Awards in Santa.monica, California, the saturday. The "A Mighty Heart" the resupplied speculation star is pregnant with its and the child of associate Brad Pitt last month, when it has carried dressing from the loosen-assembly on the moquette red to the screen Actors Guild Awards but it has refused to recall the voices approximately the new arrival. Hour Jolie has confirmed the marked pregnancy wearing black dressing tightened -- clearly to visualize its increasing belly.

And he did, too. It was kind of scary. Like watching an amateur production of Godzilla. Kate's going to be sorry tonight, if you get my drift. And Brandy. And the neighbors.

I don't believe in working lunches. I believe in eating lunches. One of the highest functions of the Lunch is precisely to excape from work, second only to the actual consumption of food. To be able to step away from whatever pointless piece of nonsense you're struggling to invest with purpose and walk right out of the building under the nose of the boss, who glowers and grinds his teeth at the towering injustice of having to pay you to spend an hour indulging in a gluttonous orgy of gastronomical engorgement, that is a moment to be savored. The sensation is diluted somewhat when you no longer have a boss, but only somewhat. Instead of stickin it to the Man, you're stickin it to the Self, but that's pretty much what I've been doing my whole life, so I'm comfortable with it.

I've always harbored a secret desire to be known as irrepressible. But I'm becoming resigned to consigning "irrepressible" to the dustbin of lively adjectives that will never be applied to me, such as "chirpy". Actually, I'm glad about that one. Apparently I am quite repressible, even unto the nth degree. And by the way, when are the theoretical mathematicians going to announce the numerical value for "nth", so we can retire this tired term? Can't they find a few moments in between bouts of shooting string theories at each other? By another way, the most interesting thing I heard on the news shows this morning was that Soupy Sales died. Also, Kerry Dougherty gives him an eloquent send-off in this morning's paper.

Before you Mom types, and you know who you are, start tsk-ing like a cricket glee club, I had just stopped in for a toficle, it being a hot day--well, for late October that is. No donuts for me, nosiree bob, none of those soft, warm, sweet confections made from scratch right there in front of me, their heady aromas wafting right up into my nasal declivities. Why not, you may ask? Because, dear readers, it would be wrong.

If I were a giant multinational car maker, or even a small artisanal car maker, I would have second thoughts before naming my car a TRD, especially if it were one of those faux trucky things. And don't think I'm unaware that this is the second time in three days I've used the word "faux", because I'm not. Not unaware, not not aware. I'm trying to class up the joint, see? I'm looking for a really shiny metallic background now, maybe with gold flakes.

No, I didn't have an accident. Didn't spill my white grape seltzer on it or cry on it or anything. Well, actually, I did cry on it, but not nearly enough to cause what you see before you. That was intentional. See, the ink from a Kohinoor artpen takes to water like the opposite of a duck's back. So I thought that rather than spend the next three days cross-hatching the shadowy bits, I'd just take a few minutes and judiciously apply a wee bit of moisture. Thus, what you witness here. It was a learning experience. Yet another in a depressingly long line of learning experiences the lessons of which I'm just not able to tease out.

I'm not a big fan of the kind of art that populates the festival circuit, but I like watching the artists and their followers. Especially at Stockley Gardens: at certain times and from certain angles, it looks like a hipsters' retirement community. Not necessarily an unpleasant resemblance, considering the other gathering-resemblance possibilities, like a town hall meeting. Speaking of which, isn't it odd that these grass-roots spontaneous outbursts of populism kind of disappeared at the same time Fox News personalities stopped sponsoring them? Huh. Kind of makes you want to speculate about some kind of correlation, doesn't it? You know, Faux News spends a lot of its airtime exposing the corrupt power of the left-wing media, but I'd like to see Katie Couric be able to incite a mob of red-faced yahoos to burst into a town meeting and shut it down. The only people I've ever seen her incite are the anti-Couricites. I'd like to incite a mob one day. It's on my bucket list. I've never incited anyone, unless you count Dr. Research trying to run me down with a luxury automobile.

Clowns, being almost human, are susceptible to the elements just like the rest of us. And there were plenty of elements at Stockley Gardens yesterday. People huddled in parka'd, hooded clusters while artists sat glowering in the dim gray light. Okay, maybe it wasn't all that bad. But there was definitely an air of duty to the trudging festivalgoers making their obligatory appearance at this venerable event. And it was for a very good cause, so nobody really minded. The high point of the afternoon for me was seeing glum clowns. I can't get enough of that.

Some of you may jump to the conclusion that I have sold out to The Man and gone all corporate and whatnot. You may jump right back to your original positions, taking care that a cat hasn't planted itself where you formerly were, as cats are wont to do. I was merely trimming my cranial insulation in anticipation of the cold snap that has set in--in a very snap-like manner, as advertised--because, you see, I march to the beat of a different drummer, one who is apparently mentally ill and possibly blind. And so I have enabled the arctic Norfolk winds to howl through the remaining strands of hair on my big-ass skull, cooling my fevered brainpan in hopes of warding off those pesky aneurysms. Oops, there goes anot