...about the world's woes.
I mean, I do care, but it's damn hard to be worried about the possibility of being vaporized when local excreta keep hitting the rotary ventilation unit.
For those of you in places like, well, Idaho (home of "wide-stance" Larry Craig and other aberrations), that means the shit is hitting the fan.
I should not be surprised that every client who owes me money has managed to take the time between Christmas and New Year's off. I have not received a check in more than a month, and the wolves are circling. They're howling, too.
My "buddy" D., the photographer, has set us up for a gig tomorrow. One of the lowest-paying jobs we have on the list, mind you. Nonetheless, it is money -- even if I don't see it until April or May -- so I have to go. He drives, though...I'm not shelling out for gas to make a 150-mile round-trip for coolie wages. Especially when his part of the deal is a few hours' worth of taking pictures, and mine is several days spent generating words.
The drumbeats trying to get me to move to Wisconsin are intensifying. My friend R. has suggested it before, and now another friend is singing the praises of such a relocation. It's nice to be wanted, I have to admit. All I have to do is figure out how to survive there, and I'm gone, baby.
Having been in Cheese-land before, I know they grow some fine-lookin' chicas there, and I'd be with people who are deep into my musical scene.
I've said it before: music and babes are what life's about.
But in the meantime, I'm here, Where The Ghetto Meets The Sea, drowning.
I no longer have those idiot notions about saving the world.
All I want to do is save my own ass, and have a few laughs while doing so.
6 hours ago