My goddamn 300GB external hard drive 'sploded the other day at the worst possible time ever. I've gotta record a song by the spawnage for my dad's birthday that's in a week, I've gotta record some music for work AND the entire Crabbydad family just wrote our first song together that I'm dying to record before I fucking forget it, which I will because my mind's turning to malt-o-meal and I can't... I, uh... can't... wait, what was I just saying?
(But I still remember the stereotaxic instrument, so all's not lost just yet.)
So, yeah, the drive blew up. It was the drive that had all my awesome samples on it: the symphonic shit and all the drum shit. Motherfucker. I just shipped it off to Texas -- like those fucking mouth-breathers are gonna know what to do with it. That's the last time I buy an external hard drive based solely on the fact that the company name sounded like a transformer-robot/Rush song (Maxtor).
There was a great article in the NY Times today about crafting the ultimate martini, and guess what -- I already drink their number one choice for gin: Plymouth. Best gin ever. I celebrated by whipping up a little drinky-poo to go along with my din-din. Made me feel all buttery inside. And by the way, the Times agrees with me that a martini made with vodka ain't no goddamn martini. It's a marti-no-siree-bob. It's funny -- I actually don't drink very often, and when I do pour myself the odd cocktail, I always feel like I'm doing something sneaky. Like my parents are going to walk in at any moment and bust my ass. That, and I feel a little like Darren Stevens. The first Darren, not the second one. The second one was a cock.
Oh, and one thing they didn't mention in that article -- martinis don't go very well with a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and soy milk.
I'm going to lie down now.