these days of leiderhosen

The beloved zefrank is doing his part for the Writer's Guild Strike and making sure we get our news whilst (love that word) reminding us that the Writer's Strike in '88 spawned the reality TV genre. Crap: I can't seem to find the link to the First Part. It's on Itunes. Not to be missed. - Toes: Chipped. Need new ones. - Baking: Not, yet, but soon . - Considering: Sajou.com cross-stitch albums. Like I have time. Like I am liable to created anything from cross-stitch that does not use obscenity. (The next one is going to be my favorite mechanic quote: "The fucking fuckers fucking fucked. Fuck it.") And I wonder why Mum doesn't come visit. - Latest odd dream: invading the castle that held everything from my childhood of indulgence and way too many books. - Finished reading: The Godmother. Ambivalent. - Spinning: Nada. The door knobs are filled again. - Knitting: red baby boots, to be felted. - On the 'pod: Podcasts; Dan's sage advice , Karl , a

Yesterday morning was spent at the laundromat on Telegraph. I got myself some company coming so have been washing up the larger and more awkward Objects d'Art in Casa Del Grant. (For the record it was a very dusty moosehead.) So just as I am settling in for 50 minutes of invisibility behind a novel a self proclaimed hobo marched in, whipped off his pants and jacket, jammed them in a washer then hit everyone up for two bucks in quarters. (He even got the remainder of my bergamont laundry soap. How foodefoo is that?) As the two most vital pieces of his wardrobe attempted to redeem themselves Mister Hobo spent a hour in his boxers, playing some impressively good blues harmonica and ranting mid-set at the spin cycle for making so much noise. He then proceeded to try to pick up any woman in the room. (Oh, here's something for you industrious souls: try saying no to a pantsless inebriated hobo shaking a harmonica. It's just not possible.) Afterwards, attempted recovery at Piz