Demolition Man

Accidentally hit 'return' instead of the tab key while I was still in the title field, so we're stuck with my that non-sequiter title. See, the 'return' key activates the 'Publish Post' button on the compose page, whereas the tab key - as it always does - just gets you from one field to the next.

One of things I don't like about Blogger is that it makes you give the piece a title before anything else, I guess because it has an auto-save feature, and it needs to have a name for the file, which it generates automatically from the title you give it. I suppose I could disable the auto-save, but that causes all sorts of its own problems, and, frankly, the totally random titles I sometimes come up with are part of that Rambler Charm.

Thing is, if I had some idea what I was going to write about beforehand, then that title/filename thing would be fine. But this thing is usually the last thing I do everyday, and I remind you yet again - in case the name The Subway Rambler doesn't give it away - that I pretty much make it up on the spot and have no idea what I'm going to write about until I start typing.

(As if you couldn't tell by the fact that I'm writing about why the title of this entry has nothing to do with the entry itself.)

Beyond that, it was a long day - as noted yesterday, I was up until about 2 AM, and then had to wake up at 6 AM to get to a business meeting in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. From here, that's about a 2 1/2 hour drive (plus) each way, so the better part of the day was spent in the passenger seat of my boss' VW. Sandwiched between drives was a meeting with the owner of the Saab service center that we've taken on as a client, so I had to be 'on!,' which is not my favorite mode.

I got home at around three and had a late lunch, then crashed for a nap, which I awoke from in a panic about fifteen minutes later to the sound of the skateboarding teenager boys getting into a screaming bitch-fight across the street. Much shouted profanity. Seriously: I swear a lot, but I at least know that screaming 'fuck you you fucking (whatever)!' at the top of your lungs in the middle of a suburban neighborhood is maybe a sign that you're just a little - oh, what's the word? - déclassé.

By that time, it was about five, so I packed up Jim's miter saw and 'erotica' (his copy of Alan Moore's Lost Girls, which I read on Sunday and may or may not write a review of) and heading off to meet him for our drive to Port Chester and jam night. Any other night, I would have cancelled, but it was McDonald Night - that is to say, our bass player who we lost to his new baby has gotten permission to come out once a month to jam, so those nights I'm bound and determined not to flake on. He was even kind enough to pick me up a burger and fries from Duchess, a regional fast food place that I'd never tried before but had a bug up my ass to do so ever since I first saw him eat it a couple of years back.

Anyway, seeing as how it is now midnight, eighteen hours after I woke from four hours of sleep, on a day on which I've been going non-stop... and I followed up the very rare ingestion of fast food with a couple of hours of my ragged and out-of-practice drumming, I'm super, super tired. So I'm calling this random pile for the evening without any kind of clever wrap-up. Nurse, please close up.

D.