Blogging whilst on painkillers sounds very appealing right about now, but since I have none I will settle for blogging whilst propped up on a heating pad and wondering exactly how many oxycontin a body could theoretically take before going Limbaugh. Because currently it feels like my left trapezius has ripped itself away from my spine and is currently in negotiations with the deltoid and triceps to blow this cowtown and hop the next train for LA. Who knew some innocent pushups could derail things so badly? Am I really that old? Fuck.
Airplane disasters! Speaking of prescription knockout pills, I am deathly afraid of flying, so the images of the plane floating in the Hudson with a ferry sidling up to it saying o hai yur not supposed to be in teh water gave me a serious case of the willies. I can pull it together enough, though, to roll my eyes at the inevitable yowling about miracles and angels and God being the co-pilot and say well, can't definitively go either way on the God/angel thing due to their convenient inherent invisibility, but what we can say with 100% confidence is that what they did have on a very well-designed and built aircraft was a pilot with Air Force fighter experience, a side venture teaching aviation emergency response and survival, and oh yeah glider training, and an actual corporeal co-pilot who hopped into the 36-degree water to retrieve life vests for passengers and flight attendants to organized the evacuation and passengers who followed instructions and helped each other. They had the best of humanity all rolled up into one incident. Oh, and there wasn't any ice on the river or barges in the way, so I guess if you're looking for something to pin on divine intervention you can choose that over luck, but whatevs. Did I mention I hate to fly? If I gotta do it, I hope that pilot or one of his students is driving my big sky bus.
Inauguration Mania! Well, sure. I'll watch it at work and then have a few people over for dinner that night, and will try to keep my creeping bitterness at bay by repeating it's not McCain it's not McCain over and over if that's what it takes to scrub the image of Rick Warren from my brain. And since I can't make it to DC for any of the official Inauguration Gay Orgies, does anyone know where the Tucson one is going to be held? You know, just in case my dinner party starts to drag.
Facebook craziness! Many people I went to college with all discovered Facebook in the past month, maybe six weeks, which means it's been one big weird timewarp since then of catching up, looking at pictures, and wondering how so many of these people manage to do things like ski Whistler and fish Barbados when I can barely get my bills paid on time. Be that as it may, there still needs to be some oh-so-clever word coined to describe the weird little rush you get when long-lost friends suddenly pop up again and want to send you a Martian or potted plant or some other damn thing, and they don't look a day older than when you were drunk-ass 22-year-olds stumbling up the stairs to the el platform together. Except that they do, because you do too.
Back hurts! A lot! Diving into the Tiger Balm momentarily!