It must be spring. My hands smell like varnish.

We don't really know the cause, but pseudo-scientific tests have confirmed that my brain has turned to mush. The prevailing theory has to do with the undoubtedly mutagenic chemicals in the varnish, but I have a sneaking suspicion that three nights of forcefully-applied iambic pentameter might have something to do with it.

I thought about writing this post in iambic pentameter. This lasted for approximately ten lines, two of which were passable and eight of which were utterly ghastly. The verses remain tucked in my notebook. I plan to place them under lock and key to ensure that they never, ever see the light of day.

Seeing The Tempest, The Taming of the Shrew, and Coriolanus on successive nights is not only hazardous to one's health, but one's writing and code output. Writing output during this week: virtually nil. Useful code output: absolutely nil.

Actually, nil minus foo, given that I actually did attempt to write some code earlier this week, resulting in my further screwing up code that probably worked before I started tinkering with it.

Such is my life. The fact that I originally typed that "Suck is my life" is probably less of a Freudian slip than it is a blatant hint.

Wait, no. The concert is tomorrow.

Ah, yes, Jackopierce reunion show. I plan to be utterly shameless. A couple of CD covers? Check. Camera? Check.

There is, of course, this small problem of the show being at 9 p.m. in Nashville. (For those of you playing the home game, that's two hours of driving each way.) I had the bright idea of driving up earlier in the afternoon and perhaps catching a movie somewhere, but now that I know how late the show will go, I'm unsure of just how appealing the idea is.

This, after a week's attempt of trying to orient my sleep schedule to one more suited to the Western hemisphere. Nice try, grasshopper. Nine p.m. start time probably means 9:30 at the earliest. A decently long set (this is a reunion tour, after all) followed by hanging around, playing Queen of the Sharpies, and getting signatures and photos means my chances of skipping town before midnight are ....

...slim.

Nevertheless, I am armed and ready for the show, thanks to Misty's clever new business cards. This time around, I won't have to pass out my email address scrawled on old receipts and napkins; if someone wants one of my photos from the show, they can just take a card and contact me at the address on the card.

If I'm home before two a.m. on Monday morning I'll count myself lucky.

Now, if I could convince myself to go out and place one more coat of varnish on the shelves...but I think that highly unlikely at this point. I'll have to check with the judges on this point, but I don't believe that you're allowed to call such thoughts "procrastination" when, in fact, you know that you have no intent of performing the thought-of action at all.

Right. So. I do believe my current karmic duty is to work on sanding the nightstand's drawer guides down a bit more. You'll have to excuse me; I must live first and rant later.