Bahama Mama

I have no idea why I titled this post Bahama Mama. Actually, I do. I could just erase those last two sentences, but then again....this all leads to my point about how I know.
Virginia Wolfe.
I've never read anything by Virginia Wolfe, but I know she was a fan of "Stream of Consciousness" writing. I don't know the educational definition of "Stream of Consciousness," but it doesn't matter. Life is full of prejudice and ill formed opinions (just look at the Republican party) so why can't I be guilty of the same crime?
My belief is that "Stream of Consciousness" is when a woman, or in this case, a male blogger, sits down, drunk at his MacBook, and starts slamming the keys in whatever random pattern comes to mind. I don't mean individual keys. That would be illegible, and just look like this: wjeusdkgh adjhada dklajieuad dd a akdyfa dndalk a! Ha, outrageous!

Instead, I mean that I have some random craneo-synapse spasms, and then, bang, a la John Madden, they appear on your screen. The world is altered, and I've subscribed to a philosophy that made Ms. Wolfe a millionairess, or at least famous as shit. Boom!

What I'd really like to ramble about is the sorry state of the Bachelor. For some unholy reason, my girlfriend has an obsession with this choss. I try to be cuddly and romantic, but every time I snuggle in to watch next to her, I can endure only 10 seconds before I jump up and have to run to the kitchen and pour myself a stiff drink. What in the name of Christ makes these women sob on national television about how much they love some perfect stranger? It makes me want to puke in a glass, take a big gulp, and swig it down for posterities' sake (Stream of Consciousness, I'd never drink my own puke.)
But regardless of the intellectual school of thought, I hate this goddamn TV show.

In new news, (is that why they named "news" "news"?) my buddy Nuno is headed off to Thailand for three weeks. He tells me it is to visit a buddy and spend some time on the beach, but we all know the allure of 10 year old boy prostitutes is just a little much for a Portugese computer programmer.

And speaking of "They," aren't "They" making quite an impact on stories these days? Just do a little scientific experiment for me. Hell, do it even if you aren't scientifically inclined. Make a note of every time "They" do a study, disprove climate change, or keep the man down over the next few weeks. Listen to your friends, your enemies, and your blowhard parents and just etch a little check mark into a notebook anytime some unfounded reference to "They" comes up as proof that some such fact is happening at this very moment. If you listen to my sister, your notebook might have 600,000 checks by next Wednesday.

Checks look a lot like tick marks. Tick marks, my friends, are what you would leave, if you were an obsessive, anorexic rock climber, in your tattered, thumbed through guide book. Next to climbs you'd done, they'd all have a check mark. I just spent the last hour looking through my book collection and thinking about the routes I'd like to do this spring/summer. I'll admit, I've adjusted my ceiling to an artificially high 13b, and have been thinking pretty hard aboout what routes I could to to justify such a bombastic position. When you're wasting nearly 2 hours looking at rocks you'd like to climb months from today, it's time to reevaluate. Or, as my amiga Virginia Wolfe did, it's time to publish a book and become famous. Either way, now is the time for change.

I'd like to wish all my loyal voyeurs a fine weekend, or, if you're reading this on Monday morning, a fine start to their week.