I saw three police cars, an ambulance (with lights), and a tow truck, (also with lights) on the way home tonight. And upon seeing each of these I was seized with debilitating pangs of guilt. Why? Fuck if I know. I just always feel like I must be doing something wrong. I mean it isn't like cops can pull you over for impure thoughts, right? (at least not yet). Then, at least, my fears would be justified.

In Grade school, every year a police man would come visit the school, and we would learn (each and ever year) how police were there for our protection, and how we should always feel safe talking to a police man, and how they were nice people. And they would run their lights and have us call them Officer Friendly. Even on Sesame street, the police would teach you the number after seven, the letter after q, and how to read the word "bicycle." And I can remember way back then, even in those formative years, the men in blue scared the shit out of me. I remember vividly wanting to unholster Senor Friendly's revolver and plug him with six rounds of slugs. The only cop I can ever remember liking is that bastian on law-enforcement, Heather Locklear as TJ Hookerette.

Maybe it's just a deep seeded, quasi-genetic fear of authority that I will have till the day I die. Or maybe I'll grow out of it with a little time and accrued wisdom. Or else maybe all cops are Napoleonic, Mirrored Glasses wearing pricks that deserve to be feared like the plague. Hard to say, really.

The only thing I know is that I will continue to break into a cold sweat at every colored strobe for at least the near future. And especially if they perfect that impure thoughts thingamajig.

Public Enemy Number One,

I really needed that day off yesterday. Thank god for snow. I feel so much better. Ahhhhhhh.

I gotta head to work in a sec. It'll be a long day of financial records and spreadsheets. But I'm strangely okay with that at the moment. (Not that anyone should really be okay with that).

I need a shower, and a big cup of coffee--sweet, sweet coffee--nectar of the Gods.

I remember when I was young--5, 6, something like that--I wanted to be Jack Tripper. That's right, Jack Tripper, John Ritter's Character from Three's Company. I thought he was the absolute best. He was so funny, in that six year old way. He got hit a lot, and fell down a lot, and seemed confused a lot. And how could you not like that? I thought what a great job it would be if I could fall down, and make people laugh. I was pretty sure I could handle it. I mean, I may never have been able to hit the level of Jack Tripper, but I could fall down pretty darn well, if I do say so myself.

I played football this weekend for the first time in a long time. It was very muddy. I fell down a lot. it felt really really good. It makes me think of how the 5 year old zach knew all sorts of things that the 24 yeal old zach has forgotten. Like how good bananas taste when cut in thirds (especially the middle third). And how to spin out Big Wheels. And the joys of miniature parachute men.

Okay, that's the thought of the day. Damn wistful moments.

If you are currently at work, and you have extra time and bandwidth, and don't care if you clutter up your hard drive, download THIS.

(It's a little movie of Zach Galifianakis, a comedian who just happens to be another greek boy named Zach, god bless him.)

Shit. I just wrote this killer post, a long one. It was hilarious, and I don't have the heart to try and reconstruct it. Suffice it to say it was a rant on advertising for experimental depression drugs and snowflakes the size of toy poodles. But then I hit the "post and publish" button, and I got this message saying "Whoops, the tools here at Blogger, screwed up and accidentily just mexican hat danced all over your really good post." But the message went on to say how sorry they are, and how they will investigate to find the source of the problem, so that, of course, vehemently brought the taste of blood to my mouth. I want to eat the young of the Blogger tools engineers.

If this site suddenly vanishes from blogspot, we'll know that they monitor the postings, and I'll have to get another one using my alias, Raul Mondesi.

Not enough sleep.

I woke up in a blizzard. I've watched 3/4" of snow accumulate through slitted eyes. I was suposed to help a friend move this morning. (Not to be confused with the two friends I helped move on Saturday, or the other friend I am helping move tonight). If the traffic gets better quickly, maybe I can help the move. If it doesn't, I'll probably have to help this friend move later in the week. I'd rather help him today, since, you know, I'm awake already.

Damn coffee isn't working.

Alright, now this post serves the dual purpose of making it look like this site actually has some content, as well as clearly signaling to my vast online audience that they can expect an onslought of substanceless babble from me with idiotic frequency. Beware.

Now I'm off to bed.

Okay, that last post was just to see if this whole thing works (and I'm happy to report that it sure seems to). This post is to help me get over the feeling like I have to have something of substance/important/funny/entertaining and/or poignant (oh shit, does this thing have spellcheck? ) in order to post.

Sincerely, your slow-learner tour-guide,

Welcome to Last in Line. With a little luck, I just might have something to say here in this blank slate of bandwidth. Who knows? Stranger things have happened.

Okay, now I'll hit post and see if this whole blog thing actually works.

Z.