November is my favorite month. Thursday is my favorite day of the week. In 1986 (my favorite year), I wrote a poem called November Thursdays. I'm happy today.
At this very moment, two different car alarms are going off in the not-too-far distance outside my office window. They're trading off their siren calls in a lovely musical duet portending the coming Los Angeles winter. Oh, it's stopped. The noise is over.
What happened to the mysterious commenter? What about that riddle?
I have unrestrained glee at the future of the Minnesota Timberwolves. The die has been cast; the cats have been fed; the sky is thirsty for a new cloud. And they haven't even won a game yet!
I'm listening to a song titled (unironically) Lazy Dreamer by Liz Phair off of her most recent album. Even her failures (the song, not the album) are fascinating and pure.
Speaking of Liz, it's been two years since the last album. I need a new one, if only to further my thesis (provable) that she's the greatest artist (in any medium) of the last 50 years. I understand that I should explain this position a little further. This explanation will come some day, I promise.
Speaking of basketball (3 paragraphs up), how come I haven't posted my NBA predictions, like I did the last two seasons. Well, here it is: In a surprise, the Los Angeles Lakers (not the Spurs, definitely not the Wolves) will beat the Toronto Raptors (fuck the Celtics) in the finals. In college, I have no idea but I like those Trojans.
Yes, I noticed the preponderance of parentheses.
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