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Sometimes when I look at bunch of garlic from the top, I see something like a little wasp nest, with little wriggling larva in there.

But then I cover them in olive oil and bake them.

I've been saying goodbye to the issues of a previous life. I'm not sure how many magazines I acquired during the mid 00's, but it was a period of mass consumption in which I tolerated the idea of buying a $28 copy of Eye four times per year.

In my times of troubles, Mother Mary Kowalski, Our Lady of Perpetual Disappointment, comforted me, speaking words of wisdom: you deserve some free hamburgers.

I anthropomorphize my batteries. I feel bad for them. What good are they? They never last. It's almost not worth the trouble to install and use them at the rate they expire.

Rick Gribenas died last year leaving a young widow and son behind. I can't say that I knew Rick, or know Charissa, his wife, well. I met Charissa through the local punk messageboard, Never Tell Me The Odds.

Too much time on the road. No shopping. 

Having wrapped performances on From the Margins and taken in my fill of NYC life and stress, I drove over to debrief the grandparents on the goings-on in the Big Apple. Pap then broke out a work-in-progress book about the family history by a relative.