Just a few things...

Melancholy night, random thoughts. Just go with me on these.

It's a night for The Smith's. There's something about Morrissey's voice that takes me to a nostalgic place; makes me long for past experiences, but also gives me a little bit of inspiration for the future. I saw him in concert last year, it was beautiful and dark, and his percussionist used a giant gong. Like a really big gong, symphony-sized. Contrary to popular belief, the size of the gong does matter. Playing right now: What difference does it make? But I just hit the forward button for How soon is now?

Thanks for the new bag, Mom, but I think it's a knock-off. It's okay, it's still cute.

It's March; doesn't that mean it's springtime? Shouldn't it be a tad warmer out? Still, it's not as chilly tonight as in Leominster, birthplace of Johnny Appleseed, home of Johnny Applebee's. I'm assuming it has got to get nicer for when I head out in May. 

Just hit forward to Panic, and am always a bit disturbed when I hear the lyrics, "Hang the DJ." The song is always a little ominous when I hear the children's chorus singing those lyrics, however I'm admittedly less disturbed than a few years ago. When I was a DJ.

At lunch the other day, I confessed to Urban Princess that I feel that in my non-work life I am an extremely irrational person. Translation: I sometimes feel like I'm living in a movie. Even as I sit tonight in my favorite coffee shop typing this, I hope my dream man will walk in, sit down and start quoting Eddie Izzard. (Or some other brilliant British comedy that most likely would use the word "brilliant." Or Animaniacs. Or La Femme Nikita. Like I said, I'm an irrational person.) I think this is why my parents started calling me Holly McBeal in the mid-90s-- because of my quirky tendencies to successfully go through my day with a composed outside while regularly referencing the beautiful fantasies in my head.

There are only 14 days until St. Patrick's Day. If you're toasting, add a "slainte!" just before you slug back your Guinness. If you want to be a bit more creative, here's another favorite of mine: "May you be in heaven a half hour before the devil knows you're dead." There's more to the beginning of that one, but I just like that part. It gives me hope. And then I drink.

Current Smith's song: There is a light that never goes out Again, disturbing. I don't want to get hit by a double-decker bus. Good thing I'm not in London-- don't the British harbour (spelled with the extra "u" as a nod to the redcoats) at least 95 percent of the world's double-decker buses?

I've traded The Smith's for the neo-melancholy strains of The Shins. I hate that Garden State made The Shins slightly trendy, if it's possible to refer to anybody who saw Garden State as "trendy." I used to like New Slang before it showed up at the same time as Zach Braff and now every time I hear the song, I think of Zach Braff and how much I dislike him. I don't like Scrubs, I very much disliked The Last Kiss and his only redeeming quality is... um... I guess he doesn't eat babies for dinner.

Last night I had some more brilliant advice. This time it was for a friend of mine, and my thoughts on why bars are high and not low like tables:

Display the junk.

Hide the boobs.

Suck the booze.

Is that a haiku without me realizing it?

So I guess that's it for tonight, it's so cold by the window here at Cocoa Caffe, I think my fingers are going to fall off. Never did the the immortal words of Dieter ring more true, "This has become tiresome."