Yes, can’t sleep.

Hmmm…I must’ve fallen asleep on the couch watching the Blur Starshaped DVD. Funny stuff, by the way. I knew they were a bunch of lushes when they were young, but it’s still kind of funny to see Damon Albarn puking his guts out on some random bench on some random street.

Anyway, something must’ve woken me up because now here I am and I can’t sleep. If it weren’t so goldarned early I’d just go to the gym or into work but it’s too early even for that. The thing is, I have an old friend coming into town – his band is playing Schuba’s tomorrow – and I want to make sure I’m tip-top and well-rested when he arrives so that I can enjoy his company in-between my DJ sets later tonight. Also, I want to be well-rested because, well, I DJ later tonight!

This sounds sick, but I kind of wish I had Quark on my home computer so I could get a little work done before I even head into the office. Yeah, I know, that’s completely wrong, isn’t it?

I’m also a tad grumpy because I went to pick up a copy of this week’s Economist and it wasn’t in yet. Stupid Columbus Day holiday…not only did I have to work but, since everyone else seemed to have the day off, regular goods and services were interrupted. Bastards. What am I going to read while I work out later today?

Hmmm…let’s see. I’m usually good for random, stream of consciousness type thingys when I’m half-asleep like I am right now, the ol’ proverbial defenses being down and all, but it ain’t coming right now. I’ve been listening to a lot of old stand-up comedy albums lately -- stuff like Bob Newhart, Richard Pryor, Bill Cosby and Lenny Bruce – and I’m in awe of the way they construct stories. Newhart in particular came as a refreshing surprise since I was never really familiar with his stand-up work, but he’s got this one bit about a school for bus drivers that had me laughing out loud all the way through. It was that kind of percussive “man, that caught me by surprise” laugh that blasts through the air of a car with its windows rolled up. Not a bad way to spend one’s commute.

Okay, maybe it’s time to force myself back in bed, counting genetically altered sheep until the sandman pulls my eyelids toward my lips and kisses me goodnight.