It's not you: It's me. Except that it is totally you.

I might have to break up with Target. The neverending construction in all stores near me, ruining the zenlike perfection that I used to cruise the store with, is proving to be our undoing.

Not a tribute post.

When I was in fourth grade, I slapped my best ring on my finger and told everybody in my class that I was engaged to Michael Jackson.

Little did I know that I was probably spot on for age, but not so much for gender.

The one thing that Michael Jackson's death did for me was allow me to re-buy Thriller. I'm much more comfortable with the thought that, theoretically, my $3.70 (I had a credit at Amazon) would be filtered to his children, rather than enabling a lifestyle that included child-touching.

Thriller was the first album that I ever owned. I got it for Christmas in fourth grade and it was magnificent. The cover photo, the double sleeve, the scratch of the needle on the vinyl. Remember the tigers? I loved those tiger cubs. Pure unadulterated awesome.

It still sounds damn good, and it makes me feel like a kid again, free and uncomplicated.

I am so busy...

That I'm having to schedule time for non-voluntary body functions. I'm neglecting this place (not that that is a new phenomena) and I'm neglecting your blogs (which is a more rare occurance). Hopefully I'll be back to normal soon.