The Old Lady has returned, along with our house guests, and I can feel the tide of crabbitude ebbing ever-so-slightly out to the Sea of Crabquility. The house was officially clean-as-a-goddamn whistle for about one second and then everyone showed up and fucked it all up again. Bastards. And that's why I only clean once every three years.
So now, with stasis restored at Casa de Cangrejo, I can start worrying about more pressing matters -- like how the fuck I'm going to craft/record the perfect song for my dad's 75th birthday, with about 10 different people singing their own verses, and burn the fucker to disk before we leave for Traverse City on Saturday morning. This thing's gonna rival "We Are the World" in its colossalness. Someone get me Quincy Jones on the horn.
Mr. Z and Miss O have come up with a framework for the tune -- kind of a "Bohemian Rhapsody"-esque number, with strings and chanting and soaring melodies. I might as well rip my own ass out right now and save myself the pain of having it done for me later. Although it's a challenge, and I dig me a musical challenge. I'll just channel my muses -- the ghosts of Freddie Mercury, Joey Ramone and Burl Ives -- to guide me.
Wait... wait... I think I feel something...
Uh-oh. Gotta take a dump. Think I channeled the ghost of G.G. Allin by mistake.