where do comets come from?; inks on paper.

* * * * *
Some necessary corrections, lately:

• That BAD-DOG/BAD-DOG thing I mentioned earlier in the week was not, in fact, written in chalk; it was spray-painted. Also, the arrows point directly at a house, not at each other. Which brings the level of bad-dog-ness to an entirely higher/lower plane altogether.

• I am sick of Pope news. Who the fuck cares? What would be the tag line for this ... old white guy in charge of dying church? Dying iniquitous church? NOT NEWS. And I'm sick of it. I'm pooped. I'm pooped on the Pope.

• For some byzantine reasons of stealth marketing, the Globe and Mail is determined to give us a free daily subscription right now. It's exhausting. Every morning, after tugging it out of the mailbox, and feeding the elastic to the cat, I go through it and spend about seven minutes being disappointed. I mean, at this point it's like a coaster with talking points. And it used to be Canada's national newspaper, for Christ's sake.

• How dead behind the eyes do you have to be to leave dirty sneakers out on the sidewalk, hoping someone will take them away for you?

• My office has been boiling for about two weeks now. Over thirty degrees centigrade. Like a nuclear furnace by afternoon. What does this do, to have all your internal organs slowly cooked, from the inside out, day after day?

• What's the psychological process for an attractive young woman who keeps trying to talk to you and you answer everything with a yeah, uh-huh, or that's nice, or just pretend not to hear her at all? I mean, I'm not trying to destroy her, but at the same time I'd really like to be left alone. Because I'm old, and there are wolves after me.

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