Today is about compulsive repetition.

It makes me want to ball up my fists and go oooooooh! with my eyes squinched tight like a cartoon character. Maybe Wilma Flintstone.

From the moment I woke up this morning, I had "Achy Breaky Heart" streaming through my head. It was there for over four hours and sounded tinny like an AM radio station. I don't like country music, I despise line dancing, and now I am feeling less than friendly toward Billy Ray for having put this song into the world. Billy, it's nothing personal, but fuck you.

That torrent of AM country radio hell finished abruptly and turned into an endless rotation of "Kumbaya". If you've ever sat through hundreds or thousands of church services, sunday school lessons, church summer campfires, and christian youth conferences like I have, this song has been done and done and done again in unison, harmony, rounds, and as twenty-minute long spirit-filling remixes. It pains like a thousand pins in my own personal voodoo doll, it does. I was blessed with three hours of "Kumbaya". Oh, the joy.

"Fame" didn't hurt as much, because for the first half of hour of it I got to be all nostalgic for rainbow legwarmers and pretending to be able to dance like Coco Hernandez from the movie. In my eight-year-old mind, I could kick so high! And I had no body fat! And my hair wasn't flat and mousy! "Fame" gets old, though, real old.

Now, all that crappity crap craptacular music has been replaced with a word. That's right. A word. EXCHEQUER. I softly repeated it in my mind: exchequer exchequer exchequer. Three hours later, though, I have developed a strong distaste for medieval England, the royal treasury, and the department or office of state in Great Britain and Northern Ireland charged with the receipt and care of the national revenue. Exchequer can take a hike. I hope it goes all archaic soon. That'll teach it.

Fucking fabulous. "The Ants Go Marching" just started up. This calls for red wine. And lots of it.

The Illusionators

I Can Cook, Sort Of