balding angrily

These are the things that keep me up at night:

• “Tom Sawyer,” why do you taunt me so? There are insideous brain worms, and there are insideous brain worms. Rush’s “Tom Sawyer” has been working through my rattled grey matter since 3:00 this morning. It’s either Geddy Lee’s not-quite falsetto or the drum/synth splashes produced to recall a 80s Disney sci-fi romp - The Black Hole, say - that torment me. I lie on my side, my back, my face, my back again, my side again…my three-quarter profile…as “Tom Sawyer” kills me softly with its song.
• Yesterday I met with a group of bloggers that will be writing for The Advocate, a local monthly. Hyper local, in the editor’s words. The Advocate concerns itself with areas of Dallas that I visit often but don’t live in. Because it’s a hyper local blog, I’ve been agitating ideas through the butter churn in my head trying to form possible blog posts. It’s a more professional publication than Balding Angrily, which celebrates its scattered ramblings. It’s tough to come up with things that are very specific to an area and don’t involve poop.
• Crumpet’s been celebrating her dog in the absense of her dearly departed Henry, and I’ve been having moments with my cat. As I lay on the couch screaming “the space he invades gets high on you” in my head, she has been laying on my shoulder with one arm lazily draped in front of her like a drowsy lioness spread on an outcropping of rock overlooking African Savannah high-grasses. She’s been peering at me with half-closed eyes as if to say, “Yes. Go to sleep. Ignore me. The sooner you fall asleep, the sooner I can start eating your face.”