Seventy-Six Trombones

I've never been in a big parade. If I ever get around to it, I'm going to make a list of all the things I want to do before I die. And somewhere around number twenty three (or seventy six, if I was funnier than I am and could think of seventy five other things I want to do before I die) I will put, "I want to be in a big parade. Just like Ferris Bueller." Maybe number twenty two (or seventy five) can be, "Be a fry cook on Venus."

We went out to some hick bar in Dewitt last night. There was even a live country band. I got so drunk that I actually danced to a Shania Twain cover, played a game of pool (that, surprisingly, I almost won) and queued up some Nazareth on the jukebox. My shame can be heard round the world, but it was actually a pretty good time.

I don't have much else to say. I took my car in for some repairs a couple days ago. It cost me $280, but my baby isn't sputtering to start and turn off anymore. She's running like a low moan, tuned in and turned on. I appreciate her tank-ish-ness, but it will soon be time to leave the Shadow behind. I'm thinking about a Saturn. I feel good about that.

But what else? There's nothing. So in closing I'd just like to say: I don't believe in Beatles, I just believe in me.