Jeff rightfully pointed out that porn, while supposedly the seedy underbelly (there's a bad pun in there somewhere, I just know it) of this interweb thingy, is also quite possibly one of the most [only?] profitable sectors.

We were driving back from Rick's on one of those zero-traffic nights where the space between your friend's house and your own gives you more time to converse than is probably good for you. We'd spent part of the night's socialization talking about various spam-stopping methods, which of course led to the discussions of the worst/most disturbing spams we've each received.

Granted, I have a nice little antispam program that munges any and all HTML in emails it thinks are spam; therefore, I can open such spams as catch my eye and look at them without worry of being tracked, logged, bugged, spied upon, or just generally bothered.

Details of the Jackopierce concert will arrive soon, after sleep, the ingestion of sustenance, and stoppage of this strange bouncing that I've been doing for the last few hours. Your normal, reserved, albeit slightly goofy domesticat will return sometime on Monday. For now, the demented impostor that has taken over her body feels the need to go into the living room and squeal for a little while.

So, let me get this straight - instead of "French fries," they're "Freedom Fries" now because those dastardly French have the temerity to disagree with Dubya's cowboy brinksmanship disguised as foreign policy?

Freedom fries? Freedom toast?
Freedom fries? Freedom toast?
FREEDOM FRIES? FREEDOM frelling TOAST?

In case no one else in this country stops snoring and bothers to say it, let me jump around and yell a bit in the hopes that someone will hear it:

My friend Heather took her camera to Saturday's massive antiwar demonstration in Washington, D.C. Her site, gravitylens.org, contains 124 (so far) of the photos she shot that day, as part of a growing series entitled "This Is Democracy."

This is good stuff. Whether or not you agree with the politics being shown, you need to see these photos for yourself.

Death does not take reservations; it comes and goes of its own free will, leaving the living to tend to the resulting disruption.

I am still tending.

So it's been one year. I can look at my watch and remember where I was. A year ago by the tickings of this watch, I was at Colter's. I showered. I had been instructed to get some rest. While I slept on Colter's bed, Jeff worked on Colter's computer.

The future hung over us, shadowy and low. We knew my father's death was imminent; the oxygen saturation of his blood had begun to drop the day before. Previously, his mask had provided him with eighty percent oxygen. We knew that moving him to 100% oxygen would not save him - nothing would - but if it kept him comfortable, that is what we would do.

But - no. That is not the way to remember.

We've gotta work on this truth-in-advertising thing. Sure, who hasn't heard that chocolate is bad for you? Rots your teeth, fattens your ass, puts the thunder in your thighs? Sure, we've got it. We ignore it every time we buy a candy bar.

However, in all those PSAs, parental lectures, and root canals, has anyone ever said to you "Stay away from that nasty chocolate or you'll get a one-inch gash on your left thumb?" Don't think so.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am the only person I know who has shed blood over a Sunday morning chocolate craving.I have also, however, managed to prove yet again that the severity of my injuries can be determined by the amount and hue of my swearing just after the injury is sustained. Torrents of colorful and inventive invective can mean only one thing: paper cut.

For some reason, the breaking of bones or the flagrant spouting of blood makes me completely forget how to swear.

Somewhere between poise and thud I had the time to wonder, "What the heck did I slip o-" thud.

After verifying that my unexpected Sunday morning skidoo had not managed to permanently realign any bones, I tried to figure out what in the world had caused me to slip on an otherwise fairly-trusty bathroom floor. It only took me four days to spot the mess.