We’re all gonna die. At least that’s what they say…

We’re all gonna die. At least that’s what they say on the news.

I get kinda sensitive when people gripe about the media, being a member of the media myself. But, jesus, when you listen to local TV folks discussing the winter storm that’s headed towards Pittsburgh, you get the sense that the last great day has come and we’d all better have our shit together — or, at the minimum, have plenty of toilet paper and bread (seriously — head to a western Pennsylvania grocery store one hour after a winter storm watch has been issued, head to the bread aisle and watch the fun — it’s like that wedding dress sale at Filene’s) to sit out the horrible aftermath.

You know … until the snow melts tomorrow afternoon.

In other news, cigarettes are still expensive. Got gas on the way to work and bought a couple packs — just in case I get snowed in — and had to shell out $10. I may start driving the extra twenty minutes or so into Ohio and buy them in a state that still appreciates guilty pleasures.


Smokes: The brand (Camel Lights) is not as importa…

Smokes: The brand (Camel Lights) is not as important as the price. I left the newsroom to head to a borough council meeting I was covering, and realized that I had left my smokes sitting on my desk. I stopped at an Eckerd’s Drug store to pick up a pack.

Oh, it sounds so simple…

I knew that the Pennsylvania General Assembly had raised the state tax on cigarettes by 31 cents or something in that ballpark. In theory, I have no problem with that kind of tax increase, especially because Gov. Rendell stipulated that much of the money was to be given to public school districts, as an expansion of their regular subsidies.

So I ask the girl at the counter for a pack of Camel Lights.

She smiles, turns to the racks behind her and retrieves my smokes.

She punches buttons on the register.

She looks up and smiles again. “That’ll be $5.50.”

Five. Dollars. And. Fifty. Cents.

And then I no longer care about the goddamn kids and the goddamn schools and outdated textbooks and underpaid teachers. It suddenly occurs to me that I’m about to start paying upwards of $40 a week to pump carcinogens into my lungs.

Generally, I have no problem admitting that I’m a total moron.

Now, I have proof.


What I really wanted to say is that I’m going to spend the next day or two delving into the mysteries of this internet stuff. Specifically, I’m going to take a walk through Blogger’s help pages and see if I can’t make this page considerably more nifty. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Sweet jesus — it’s nearly 1 a.m. I sat around for…

Sweet jesus — it’s nearly 1 a.m. I sat around for so long reading other blogs tonight that I apparently forgot that I’M AT WORK, and I had shit to finish before I head home. So I’m filing yet another project right on deadline, at the expense of sleep and all the other things you give up when you’re at work at 1 a.m.

Going home. Looking foward to taking a hot shower in my own house tomorrow morning.

Chronically, inevitably …. another deadline, and…

Chronically, inevitably …. another deadline, and another night reading other people’s blogs or writing in my own. Maybe the Monday night thing will become a routine. At least I’m posting something.

Not an especially pleasant weekend, except for the very end. Worked all day Saturday without the benefits of a shower. The hot water nozzle in our apartment shower is on the fritz, and getting my landlord to do any kind of work on the apartment is difficult at best. His plumber came over Sunday, and took a look. No parts. Have to come back. The landlord came over Monday afternoon, saw how much paint had peeled from where he patched and painted NINE YEARS AGO right before I moved in. Suddenly, it’s a disaster. But we have hot showers again. That’s all we really cared about anyway.

Saturday was a drag because we had an enormous fight before I came to work. We need to change something. Jobs. Residence. Quickly.

Managed to have a little fun Sunday night. Saw Jazz Mandolin Project at a relatively new place in Millvale called Mr. Small’s Funhoue. Yet another creative use for de-consecrated (that can’t possibly be spelled right) churches. A theater/performance space that seats up 650 people. An apparently very nice, up-to-date recording studio. And a skate park. Mr. Small’s has done an admirable job of attracting bands from the hippie circuit, but I was a little dubious about attending a show there … Deadheads can be a little scattershot, organizationallywise. But this place is spectacular … amazing sound quality, very well run … we’ll be back on Friday to see Hookah for the first time … um … since Athens, probably.

OK. Finish this story. Only has to be 15 or 20 inches. Piece of cake.

Hm. Should have a smoke first…