User Profile

When not thinking of new excuses to call in sick to my day job teaching old people the intricacies of point-and-click technology in a lineage society's library, I like to stop and smell the roses, provided they aren't making me sneeze that day. When not sleeping at my desk or supine on the couch, I'm probably propping up the bars of any number of area drinking establishments. For every six nights on one side of the bar I spend a Saturday night on the other. I traffic in snark and frequently say aloud things I shouldn't, which I conveniently fail to recall almost all of the time; but in general, people seem to think I'm a pretty good guy, whatever that means. Fools, the lot of them. I live anonymously in a 10th-floor shoebox which I selected primarily on the basis of kitchen counter space, though its proximity to a fire station with its attendant (and constant) blare of sirens makes it the very pinnacle of peaceful living. Due in all likelihood to my childhood obsession with the movie "Ghostbusters," I have an enduring desire to mount Sigourney Weaver. I am, in the words of an old and dear friend, a "rejection junkie." I am also, in the words of an African American gentleman whose acquaintance I had the pleasure to make recently, a "fat cracker." While the cracker part is certainly true, I take issue with the "fat" descriptor--I prefer "pudgy" or "big-boned." I think Excedrin Migraine is the cure for the common hangover, and Neil Young's "American Stars 'n' Bars" is the cure for the common break-up. If you hang around me long enough, I think you'll find that in spite of myself I'm a pretty good egg. Sadly, not as good an egg as one with bacon and cheese, but then, who or what is?

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