guanistic petrophilia with jars and jars of gravel

My friend's band is playing Saturday night, with another band I really liked back in the day (The Insect Surfers) and with Joe Baiza, who is a sort of guitar hero of mine. He was in Saccharine Trust and Universal Congress Of, both of which rocked my world in the 80s. Sort of a post-punk Carlos Santana.

I get "evaluated" at work tomorrow. Boy do I hate that. It's nonsensical. What to do? I must put up with it for money.

On a totally different line, I am looking into becoming a eunuch. I think it can result in weird body type problems and hormonal issues, but it's been clear for at least 10 years that my sex drive is a complete waste of my energy, and I'd be better off using those calories to improve my score at Tetris or throw heavy objects slightly further. I think the last actual real "date" in the "might get some" sense I had was in 1987. No really. If I had to choose, I'd prefer a metaphorically masturbatory existence to a literal one.

saving grace or elephantine system failure?

On a better note, I made a really really good roast tonight, because the simple fools at Ralphs were selling ribeye steaks for 99 cents a pound and I bought a huge one and roasted it with garlic and potatoes.