Bush On The Road
Well, the big news this morning concerns President Bush's impending visit to the UK. Apparently the White House has asked London police to keep protesters safely away from America's commander in chief. Never mind the big news of YESTERDAY, that a whopping 60% of voters polled in the states said that they wouldn't re-elect Bush, due to the war on Iraq.
The President will, as reported, recieve freedom of the city from London. This means that he can Pop into Mrs Huntley's house in Chiswick and demand a cup of tea and a cheese and tomato sandwich, if he feels hungry as his motorcade passes through London's expanse. As long as Mrs Huntley isn't a war protester!
For some strange reason, I really Pity Bush at this point. Only the people who know me personally really hate me. Bush's popularity is about as broad as the guy who gets really drunk and then waves his dick around at parties. Not that I would do something like that.....well....not recently.

Sick As A What?!
Right now I'm fighting my stomach's urges to empty its' meagre contents all over the keyboard. Okay. That's not the prettiest picture, unless you're into that kind of thing.
I've tried to place the origin of this particular malaise. It was probably the dip that comprised the centrepiece of a raw veggie platter, served in the break-room at work to honour a recently departed colleague. (No, he didn't die...) I'm feeling like I am about to, however.
There are so many cliches I could use for my current state. Sick as a dog. Sick as a parrot, etc. I've rarely seen a dog get terribly ill, other than from the throes of old age, or a good puke from eating the lawn. Parrots living in good conditions can get up to a hundred years.
We really should dream up a new vernacular to describe this sort of thing. Say, sick as an ageing piece of roast beef that was left too long in the fridge and now has an unctuous sheen reminiscent of a rainbow and smells funny. Sick as the guy who tried to drink a draino martini? Sick as the old lady who lived down the street, until an ambulance took her away and we never saw her again. How about the (soon to be) ever popular sick as a pheasant?

Current Mood: Urrrrrrrrrrrppppppppppphhhhhhhhhoooooossssssssshhhh!

Banking Is Fun!
Spent almost an eternity in a queue to see a teller at the bank this morning. I think I've worked out why there are so few tellers behind the little windows. It's a sociological experiment. Somewhere, there must be somebody watching the output from all those security cameras. Whilst everyone yawns, grumbles and scratches themselves, this guy/gal is keeping meticulous notes about how we manage not to physically threaten, or otherwise abuse the personal space of our neighbours in line. I've seen a few instances of people unhappy with the situation go a bit nutty. It usually ammounts to a crabby old lady shouting at the non-teller employees, "Why aren't you people working??!!" All in all, it's mostly a sedate affair. Watching the little kid in the "Yu Gi Oh" 'T' shirt knock over the movable velvet ropes, or staring aimlessly at the numerous stupid posters that say what a pleasant experience it is to bank there. In reality these placards should read, "Screw You Buddy, It's My Coffee Break!" complete with a picture of a bank employee sniffing a sharpie.

Current Mood: Grumpy

Bloggin' Virgin!
First of all, yeah, yeah, my url is misspelled. Tried to fix it, but all my attempts came to absolute naught. Great! my first entry and people are already laughing. For all the wrong reasons. My luck, the guy that chisles out my tombstone will probably commit some massive typographical error that will have 'em rolling in the aisles.
Now to the horrid task of introducing myself. My name is R.A. Levin. The R stands for Robert. The A, you will never pry from me. I promised a more famous Robert Levin that I wouldn't actually use THAT name, to protect him from embarrassment. This also saves Nat Hentoff the dirty job of having to say anything nice about me!
I'm a wannabe writer working in a soul sucking dead end job.
No cute pet stories here. My landlady won't tolerate any furry critters. Fun tales about my love life? You're probably not going to see too many of those either. My attempts at wooing the girl who works at the liquor store have been haphazard. In a similar vein, you might have to read through a few drunken rants, or some militant angry vegetarian stuff. I never know what kind of mood I'll be in.

Ciao for now! (Damn, that was lame!)