Mother, don't judge. It doesn't happen very often. While we are on the subject, I would like to offer up a winery shout out to the people of Blackstone, for making my favorite syrah (even though I speculated over dinner that their winery probably resembles Frass Canyon, the winery in which Miles drinks from the spit bucket in Sideways). However let us note that, at the moment, I am drunk on cabernet.

Who keeps hitting caps lock?

So I might have been in an 8 hour offsite brainstorm-style corporate meeting event today, in which hundereds (this is how I spell this word when drunk) of PowerPoint slides clicked by in a blur of forward-thinking strategical corporescence, that being, the state of embodying corporate ideals. The chairs might possibly have been mightily uncomfortable, and I might have had an out-of body-experience after the boxed lunch, and just before the coffee service, in which I floated above my corporescent self, into an alternate universe in which one is paid to sit in comfortable chairs, and think of pleasant things.

Is this the worst rant ever? (Or was it this one?) Did it occur to me as I partook of expertly rendered bell pepper and curry whatever that I made for dinner this evening, that if I went on an after-dinner walk, it might be the last that my spouse possibly ever saw of me alive, as I wandered, cabernet besotted, in front of a Chevy Suburban, at the intersection of Brickyard and 121st?

In fact yes. Why does wine do this?

Did I happen to mention that, in recent hate mail to tiny dog, I was declared by a perfect stranger to be "THE WORST writer on the face of the earth," and I quote? Surely this post will dig me out of this hole of bad writerly esteem in the eyes of the masses.

Last night I might have watched part of that Seattle-stereotype-trafficking dinosaur of a movie, Singles, in which, what's-his-name, you know, the famous brother of Johnny Drama... that's right, Matt Dillon, he of Herbie Fully Loaded, declares to Bridget Fonda, "Janet, you rock my world." And I could just tell, the way he delivered this line, it was supposed to somehow be quotable, and tagline-esque, and yet, he had totally rejected her, and there was no reason for him to be saying this, other than to establish his character as a lovable, long-haired, grunge-tacular idiot and archetypal 90's Seattle denizen, which he may or may not have effectively approximated, what do I know, I lived in California in 1992.

And of this film I thought: there is something distinctively creepworthy about Campbell Scott, playing a character named Steve, a name that has, in my limited experience, always been commensurate with questionableness, for example, I once knew of A Steve, aka, Mayor of Hooterville, thusly known for his propensity to install Hooters waitresses on the back of his motorcycle which he subsequently wrecked, before he was fired from my place of employment for embezzling, but I will say no more.

I suppose that is all. I await your hate mail, in which you berate my misuse of common punctuation symbols, and mid-priced red wines from Monterey. A town with some truly breathtaking sand dunes, but I digress.

People, it just might be time to sober up.

Send mail to mail@tiny-dog.com.