I've planned to blog in the grand old fashion tonight. Make up for sparse presence the past few weeks. I've been reading Tropic of Cancer and marveling and how little I knew about the history of American writing. Discovering Henry Millar years after falling in love with Hunter S. Thompson and Kerouac and Burroughs is a bit embarassing; like introducing yourself as a stranger to a party host, late into the night and drunk and having the time of your life, feeling indeed like you belong, like you own a bit of the place.

"So this is your house?" you'd probably exclaim with some measure of mock surprise, trying to make like you didn't feel like king of the joint and you hadn't been cutting loose all about the living room. "Oh, you mean Anias Nin over there, you mean that was the love of your life..." and so on.

But the thing is, we being kindred souls and all I don't think Henry would mind.

Kindred souls. If he were around these days he'd probably get that a lot. Damn annoying too, I'd imagine, all the half-assed punks who think they measure up just because they'd slept in rough places and written a few searing journal entries.

That's a thing about me though; more often than not I assume I'm on someone's level, no matter who they are. I tend not to revere people I meet or otherwise come to feel I know. I don't know whether this is a good thing or not. Could be confidence and a desire to relate equitably, a resistance to the cult of personality. Could be pure poison hubris. Certainly leaves one hurting for role models.

A lot's been going on the past week with work and not a lot else. What with the stress and all I've been getting short with some of my co-workers, my co-worker roommate Dan in particular; our joking reparte about whether or not signing Justin Timberlake on to Music For America would be a good thing or not taking on sharp edges at times. But we're out of the worst, and I've thankfully regained consciousness of my gruffness, so things should even out. It's hard sometimes when there's no Steve Wangh to tell me I'm being an asshole.

And so I want to tell you all about the place I'm living and what -- really -- is going on inside of me, but I need to have another burbon, peruse some more tawdry whoring genius parisian-themed prose and then sleep like the dead for six hours or more. It turns out to be more of a challange to meaningfully spit content when I work at something else all day and night; I think I can make this work in any case. Too much of a habit to break now.