29 January 2001

Okay, let me get this straight. Art “I fucked Cleveland and skipped town without so much as leaving a $50 on the dresser” Modell wins the Super Bowl. Ray Lewis is not only not in jail for murder but is the game MVP. Shrub is still president. My newspaper is about to combine its music and tech sections into one apples-and-gravy combo plate. Did someone save the receipt for this whoreson year so we can get a refund?

29 January 2001

24 January 2001

Hey, maybe I ought to make like Shrub and swear off email for four years. Yeah, that’s how to handle stuff you don’t understand: hide. Not that we needed further proof that this oaf is half the man his father is, but did George Sr. hide under the shopping cart the first time he saw a UPC scanner? No. No he did not.

Of course, maybe Poppy reminded him that it’s a damn site harder to hang your fat ass for treason if there’s no document trail. Ask Henry Kissinger about those Freedom Of Information Act blues — and, if you haven’t already, check out the blistering exposé in this month’s Harper’s.

24 January 2001

15 January 2001

My notebook is crashing today. Not that it’s not always in a precarious condition, being one of my computers and thus subject to the same whatever-field that makes me stop watches and small electronic items, but 9.8 meters/second^2 feels like it’s going a little quicker than usual just now. To salve my shattered nerves, I have repaired to eBlots and henceforth prefer to be known by my username there.

Love —

Hairy Linen.

15 January 2001