Days

If days were longer, they'd be weeks.

Broom In The Closet

There's a broom in the closet. It's been there for three years because nobody sweeps the house anymore.

Snot.

Old News

For God's sake, get this battering ram out of the living room. There's no space for it. Every time I walk from the front door to the kitchen I have to step over it, and sooner or later, I'll trip and break my neck. It's old news. You don't even use the thing anymore.

I don't want to see it, I don't want to hear about it, I don't want to know where it went. I want to forget it ever existed. Get it out of the house.

Something I Realized Staring Out The Window This Afternoon

Hummingbirds

Will Never Know

How Cool They Are.

Stir

If I have to stay under this blanket for another day, I'm sticking stamps on my body and shipping myself to Brazil.

An Evening In Santa Fe

I probably shouldn't be trusted to communicate any thoughts after eating all that green chile, but in the twelve-hour nap that followed, I discovered the meaning of life, and maybe someone might want to hear about it. Naturally, I've forgotten the details, but it's hard to retain memory when you stay in a town where everyone lives in modestly upholstered sofas. After a good hearty walk, I'm tempted to sit down, when from underneath the cushion, a man yells at me to get off his roof. It smells like shop class. They must be carving "Beware of Dog" signs, which are both ubiquitous and unnecessary. In this part of the country, you should anticipate dog ownership at every sofa. Instead, the few without dogs need to hang signs that read, "No Dogs Here, Thank You". I think that a new sleep will help me remember the meaning of life. Instead, I dream about a xylophone with seven wooden bars. They are not quite in key with each other.

Blade's Ice Cream Parlor Doesn't Quite Cut It

The cheery facade of a blue-green awning and children's drawings hung in the windows of the new Blade's Ice Cream Parlor near the corner of Pico and Robertson is reminiscent of typical family-friendly food destinations from a time when children looked both ways before crossing the street. But step inside this grotesque mecca for frozen dessert, and you'll immediately see what it is they really want.

Blade's, named so arbitrarily after the Wesley Snipes franchise, opened to great fanfare in May, citing "homemade" concoctions and "the best" ingredients as an essential part of their menu. After ordering a Blade Sundae, you'll soon discover that the "home" in "homemade" was referring to a home for the criminally insane; a place where murderers and cannibals are asked to make treats flavored with strawberry, chocolate, and other flavors. Included among "the best" ingredients are fingernails or what you'll hope were chest hairs. To be sure, no one has yet to find any fingernails or hairs in their sundae, but you will sense the intent to wish it be true.

The surly old men behind the counter will not apologize to you after you make a scene decrying their far-below subpar ice cream establishment in front of the long lines of people spilling out the door waiting patiently for dessert. You won't get your money back, either. Avoid this place like your mother when she has strep throat.