I used to enjoy writing total nonsense. To young me, there was nothing more freeing than sentences of complete and utter drivel, something closer to Mad Libs on ketamine than anything of even the lowest literary value. Take a proper noun, take a verb, rinse and repeat, and then you’ve got a sentence like “Strom Thurmond took off his garter belt and then struck the dragon with a forty-pound candy cane.” Why? Who cares? Do kids these days even remember the schmuck who was Strom Thurmond? “Aw yeah fam. I know Strom. He’s the guy from Arcade Fire.” God bless the Zoomers.

Exhaustion has claimed the championship title this week. Two massive projects have smacked me around the ring with their ham-shaped gloves, each blow slamming more pain and grease against my cheeks. I say to them, as I collect my teeth and rise on my shattered limbs, “You can’t kick me down, you fuckin’ jokes. I’ll finish you both before the next bell.” But then the next bell rings and I find myself whistling toward the ground again, thinking in my unraveled brains that, you know what, maybe I’d like to take up potato farming. The potato is versatile, filling, delicious with cheese. Then I hit the floor and my head explodes like a gross watermelon, seeds, pulp and all.

I had a watermelon explode on me once. Goddamn thing was sitting pretty on top of my refrigerator and then I heard, from the whole other end of the apartment: Pop! Fizzzz. Like someone had just set off a small firework. I had to wrap a plastic garbage bag around the fetid fruit from Hell’s own produce aisle and maneuver it in without actually touching it. It liquified upon impact with the bottom of the bag. The experience actually might have made me believe in a higher power. Only some omnipotent sicko would make the stars and moon align to have moldy red shit splatter all over my kitchen.

I’ve enjoyed this Eurovision season, although a few favorites of mine from the semifinals didn’t break through to the final. I thought for sure that the Latvian delegation’s cheeky song about veganism would eke in, and the Irish song was a catchy tune, but neither of them got in to the big dance on Saturday. My biggest shock came when Malta didn’t qualify; usually the Eurovision audience digs the kind of positive pop banger that “I Am What I Am” embodied. I guess not so much this year. But we all know that Ukraine will win the contest based on the public vote alone. Forget the political issues turning rightful sympathy toward the country; Kalush Orchestra has a certifiable song on their hands deserving of a win.

I’ll be watching the Eurovision Song Contest with some folks from the Second Life music scene. Of course, we’ll all be logged in and camped out in London City while viewing the contest via other means. Everyone’s going to be dressed up in their country’s colors. It’s interesting to enter the metaverse and instantly connect with folks halfway across the country. That part of this brave new world is one I enjoy. To share Eurovision with them in real time is going to be a fun experience. However, as I am a dirty American without representation in the contest, I have entered a free sweepstakes among the musician group to adopt a country. Whoever has the winning country gets 250 Lindens, which amounts to the sweepstakes commissioner handing over one whole Christian dollar. I got Finland. Despite the Finnish group’s strength, I do not expect to win a dollar. But I do expect to have a lot of fun.

It seems funny to post something so late at night, but this blog has never been anything professional. I used to try. I wanted to get ahead with my writing, try to be objective, try to post things that would make potential employers interested in my skills or loved ones proud. But I’m old and grumpy and I’ve decided that one joy I have in this life – along with my wife, my music, and the New York Mets – is dumping drivel into a blog post in the wee hours of the night and posting it for no one but myself. I used to try before I remembered that before I used to try, I used to wallow in the muck. I loved the deranged, the chaotic, the unmoored. Something about just going absolutely buck wild on the page attracted me to the written word back in the day, and the day has reared its dumb and ugly head, extended its one crusty talon, and hooked me by the hole, all to drag me back into Hell.

Let it drag me! Let me be dragged. After all, it’s a hell of my own making.