A man who is always punctual with his mouth.

I've only been up for a couple of hours, and I've already encountered three people who need a good beating, or at the very least a solid punch in the mouth. It's not the waking-up part of mornings that bothers me any more; it's putting up with the collective douchery that we call humanity.

My bathroom ceiling is currently pissing on me from three separate orifices; if I wanted this type of abuse, I'd be paying good money to an Aryan dominatrix in PVC and spiked heels pretending to be a Japanese sexbot to administer it. Instead, I've got a landlord who claims it's the property's owner's problem, who in turn claims that it has to do with the roof, despite the fact that a) I'm in the basement of a three story building, b) it hasn't rained in over a week and I'm still getting leaks, especially when c) the upstairs neighbour's kid sends his gerbil on Magical Sewer Adventures through the toilet. I'm getting tired of dealing with people who can't seem to understand that an apartment isn't just property that generates revenue, it's where human beings sometimes dwell and that sometimes things need to be fixed. So that I don't get sick and DIE.

I've been re-reading Transmet (again) and it's causing me to think Deep Thoughts again; having a girlfriend who is smarter than All Of You Combined also makes me think I should be paying attention to World Events and Big Things, but eventually it becomes too tiring. Here is the thing: politics is a game played by people who have the power to change the rules when they see fit to do so, and I learned a long time ago to not even bother playing with people like that. I'm starting to suspect that the trick is to find a new game. Of course, that's easier said than done.

Talib Kweli, Eardrum: "I call these rappers baby seals because they club you to death"; when will people stop listening to Paul Wall and the Game and start listening to this man? He can hold his own against Mos Def and Black Thought put together, and ain't afraid to be funky about it, neither.

Blockhead, Uncle Tony's Coloring Book: The only problem with mining the seventies for your samples and beats is that most of the sounds that came out of the seventies weren't that good to begin with; also: DJ Shadow did this already with The Private Press, the album that everyone bitched about constantly in regards to it not being Endtroducing Part 2. Fuck y'all. That is not to say that UTCB is not a fine album, equal parts disco, prog-rock and beackbeats. This is where RJD2 shoulda gone instead of miring himself in lite-FM radio rock.

The new M.I.A. is an adventure in tribal bhangra and Sri Lankan grime, and features the weirdest cover of The Pixies "Where Is My Mind?" that I've ever heard. You should've all been onto this woman long ago, but no one listens to me.

As to the Wilco show: no, I didn't punch anyone. Y'all knew that wasn't gonna happen anyway. Y'think a guy like me is allowed anywhere near talent like that? Nuh-uh. Suffice to say that this show rivalled the famous Republic show oh-so-many years ago that the rest of you are sick of hearing about. Nels Cline is inhuman; his guitar playing is, quite frankly, mesmerizing, and his weird marionette-like movements frighten me immensely (did you SEE the way his legs moved? That's not RIGHT!). Still, Jeff Tweedy's better-looking.

But they didn't play 'Misunderstood', so the show sucked.

Now I must go research tires and the various methods and implements by which to fill them with air. Because my life is always exciting. Aren't you jealous? Thought so.