Hi, I'm Troy McClure...

...perhaps you remember me from such e-mails as Increase the size of Your Penis, and Get Out of Debt, You Big Fucking Deadbeat You. Now that Phil Hartman is no longer around to make me laugh out loud, has Simpsons' character Troy McClure also gone to cartoon heaven? Troy McClure has given me the best line to lay on vegetarians: don't kid yourself, if a a cow ever got half a chance, he'd eat you and everyone you care about. If I'm not mistaken, he also did the voice of the unctuous lawyer guy. I am volunteering to impersonate Phil's voice so that Troy and Phil can live on forever, or until that show is cancelled.

Back to my original point. All of you people sending junk e-mails listen up: I have no debt, I have no mortgage, I am satisfied with the God-given size of my penis, so for Pete's sake send your shit somewhere else. From the looks of my junkmail e-mail box, America must be a nation of broke, no-dick dudes who can't afford their houses, and want to see Britney do porno. Guilty as charged on the last offense, your honor. Actually, just about anything to keep her from singing would be OK with me.

Here is a bit of evidence to my state of complete mindlessness this morning. I accidentally spilled a few drops of coffee on the legal pad I was scribbling on, I waited for it to dry, I traced the edge of the stain with my pen, and then I wrote "Coffeestainistan' inside the borders of my new country. Its shape reminds me of Cuba, but the name sounds vaguely central Asian.

I had five people over last night. It was really this morning if you want to get technical. We closed down Le Pichet which seems to be everyone's new favorite place these days. I like it because the kitchen always seems to be closed so you don't have to hide behind an expensive meal when all you really want to do is booze it up a bit. It is a startlingly exact replica of a Parisian bistro, except that the toilettes are down the hall and not down a spiral staircase in the basement. I dropped a note in their suggestion box saying that to give it a further Parisian feel, they should think about hiring some toothless old woman as a washroom attendant.

Going back to my apartment always seems like a good idea at 2 am, and always a terrible idea the next morning, but my place it was. I was playing kazaa.com dj while everyone shouted requests. I was pretty conscientious about the volume, I thought, until I heard a knock at my door. I figured it was the gal who lives below me as she has voiced her displeasure at my drunken orgies (drunken at least) in the past. Voiced her displeasure isn't entirely accurate, more like banged a broom handle on her ceiling in displeasure but that doesn't have a good ring to it. What a hag. God, I love that word and I only wish that I had reasons to use it more often.

So, I went to answer the door without adjusting the volume to the stereo, and instead of the chick from downstairs, I was greeted by two of Seattle's finest. They told me that someone called them to complain. All I could say to them was, "Really?" I apologized to them for such a silly, not-shit errand they had to run for the gutless neighbor whose beauty sleep I was interrupting. Everyone soon left which, although I didn't get laid (not that I was remotely close before the raid but a guy has to at least have a shred of hope of getting some sort of action to stay up this late in the first place), was probably a good thing. I woke up today to a wisp, a hint, an insult to a real hangover's brand of hangover. The kind of hangover that is driven out of your system by a cup of coffee, like rolling down a window and shooing a bug out of your car.

I just can't believe I had a run-in with Johnny Law over my music. I really don't like rock and roll. About the only thing coming from my apartment when I'm home alone is my own piano playing and Glenn Gould playing Bach on the stereo. If it is possible to wear out a cd I would have destroyed The Goldberg Variations a long time ago. I don't think that cd has been off of my five CD player in two years. Talk about a rut, I may as well nail the thing in there.

I get compliments from strangers in the hall quite often, whether they realize it's me or Gould playing I couldn't say. I rarely play my stereo to tell the truth and if I play my piano late at night I play very softly. Not like the punk rock girl who lives above me who blasts her tunes at all hours. Not that I'm complaining, it all goes with living in the city. This was a Friday evening mind you so I think that grown-ups should be allowed to stay up late and basically live their lives in the apartments they rent. I feel like I had more freedom living at home as a kid. If you want complete and utter privacy, if you need complete and utter silence then you should think of moving to a house in the suburbs. That sounds like a fate worse than death to me. If I never see another strip mall I'll be just fine unless someone is flying a plane into one. I apologize for that last statement, it was in very poor taste in light of recent events. Wait a minute, that was like six months ago so get over it.

My point here is that I'll stick to the city and deal with my neighbors. If the gal downstairs is reading this: the next time I'm being an asshole come up and have a drink with us.