Probably not accurate to single out my hair. Or to single out today, for that matter. "Bad body life" sounds kinda whiny, though. And God forbid I should sound whiny.

A little judicious tweaking should do the trick. Not that I mind having this kind of access to my emotions, making contact with my inner Alan Alda, but sobbing at work has its downside.

If you had but eyes to see, you'd know everything there is to know about me by looking at my foot. The threadbare sock, the various scars and bumps, the shabby gentility of the old but expensive shoes, the layers of big toenail that speak as clearly as the rings on a redwood stump, the pungent aroma of a fine aged French cheese just on the brink of runniness. Some people hate the French. People we know, people who we would think are perfectly normal, if slightly bulging, absolutely loathe the French. One of the mysteries of life.

Got roped into seeing a play after Jack said, "No way. Call Wally." But it actually turned out to be entertaining. A written synopsis would sound incredibly sappy, but it was kind of moving. Pretty well acted, decent production values, and the conventions of theater acting, you know, "emoting" and "projecting", weren't so annoying. The only bad part, except for having to wear a tie, was having to descend into the lair of the beast. Centerville Turnpike. You know what I'm talkin bout. You could almost taste the slick superficial piety, hear the diamond-laden planes overhead. Of course, it could be worse. I could live next door to Uncle Pete.

The sound of a carpenter's nail gun as he works on a new house. From half a block away, it sounds just like the old hammer and nails. Granted, that rhythm's missing, the one that could make you feel the nail sinking, tap by tap, into the surrendering wood. But that loud tok that carries through the neighborhood, is still intact. Okay, he's working on a townhouse, one of those fake Federal styles designed by a really stingy architect, with no eaves and the bare minimum number of windows. But still, people with more money than taste deserve a place to live, too. And that sound, on a quiet rainy day, can transform your outlook for a few moments. In the midst of a torrent of bad shit this week, I'll settle for that.

I woke up at 2:30 this morning with the idea of doing this or something like it. Don't know what was so compelling about it at the time, but it sure shot the hell out of my night's sleep. Before I went back to bed, I discovered a wiry white hair growing straight out of my forehead. I took this as a sign that I should never, ever learn to speak German. In retrospect, I now take that as a sign that I should stop messing with my meds. But at this juncture, I can't tell whether "messing with" is defined as stopping them or resuming them. After all, as a friend pointed out, the natural state is a medless one. But after all, it was a doctor who thought meds would help correct an imbalance of something or other. And I can see the merits of each point of view. When I'm fully medicated (I can hear some people gritting their teeth over my broachification of this topic, but they have to understand that for this blog to have any value (for me), the unfettered outpouring of whatever festers in my interior skyways, whether sincere or jinking around for yucks, is a necessity, and let the chips fall where they may. This can sound incredibly selfish to ears tuned to a particular station, but we're all always incredibly selfish, even (or especially) when engaged in incredible selflessness, and while the assessment of the tangible results of our continual solo wrestling match is a legitimate undertaking, the bemoanization of our wretched, heartbreakingly ambivalent motivation is a mug's game.) So where was I? Ah yes, meds. Do I even know if they're in my system? I need to have the mental clarity afforded by my meds or by their absence even to be able to answer that question. If I had 65¢, I'd buy a Snickers.

Dare I eat a banana? Okay, I will.

My old friend Wayne came all the way from Atlanta to see me today. Okay, he came to see his daughters, but still. We spent a few hours reminiscing and commiserating about getting old and disgusting. It's something that you younger folks just can't identify with, but just wait! It's coming! That's our one consolation. Mbwahahahaha! You find yourself panting more. Hair starts growing where it never did before. Parts of you wobble. Your body makes rude sounds at inopportune moments. Your teeth have the consistency of Cheerios. Your skin develops spots, lines, lumps, pits and blobs. You become a human version of a rotting apple. It's gonna happen, you young punks! Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!!

The problem is multi-national corporations. Is there anyone who doesn't see that? They are structured to be amoral. Stockholders demand one thing: profits. Ipso facto, man. When a young girl gets married, the Englishmen click. It's not wonder!