8:44am- Am menaced by trucks as I drive in to work. They flank me on the highway and then all at once merge in towards me. I pop like a freshly burst zit.
10:03am- Sit across from guy in meeting who looks like an old friend of mine whom I miss. As I think back wistfully to all the good times we had, the doppelganger turns his head towards me like Large Marge in Pee Wee’s Big Adventure. Terrified beyond measure.
12:33pm- Gag on Tandoori chicken grizzle. Seriously, I hate that! It’s like Russian roulette even eating that shit.
3:41pm- Am mandatorily invited to attend two-hour long brand/advertising guidelines discussion for major financial investment firm. Halfway through, stop breathing. Sweet release.
4:12pm- Pass poster in hallway featuring Cindy Crawford. She is asking me to help her in the fight against blood cancer. BLOOD cancer? Holy shit, people can get that? Oops, guess so.
9:43pm- Stepping out to play a show, wear new Isaac Mizrahi boots from Target. So excited to find boots to fit fat calves, bought two pair: one black, one brown. Already, by the beginning of our set, feel as though I am standing with feet between dual vice-grips—a maniacal sadist working the cranks. The cranks turn and turn until my bones are crushed sending calcium-fortified shrapnel through bloodstream.
11:57pm- What is up with these mother fucking trucks? On way home from winning Point Roll’s highly esteemed 1st Annual Battle of the Advertising Bands competition (staged at Great American Music Hall no less—where I have seen great bands such as The Ravonettes, The White Stripes and Max Weinberg and the Weinberg 7, the last one being a lie), am again flanked by trucks. Trying to merge onto 101-S, get caught between four of the 18 wheels of an 18-wheeler.
Other than that, pretty good day.