Don't you ever think anything you don't say?

I am home for the weekend. I need the comfort that my family provides, just need to eat with them and talk to them and see my house again. I'm going to see Boots at the hospital tomorrow. I'll watch the Ravens game on Sunday with my dad and Uncle Phil, have a few beers. And sure, while I'm here, I'll pop into the Baltimore Convention Center tomorrow morning and visit with Michael Francis Foley. That's probably why I'm so jittery, nervous, scattered, almost nauseous tonight. I can't focus. So this should be an adventure.

My cousin asked me to be her confirmation sponsor. For you non-Papists, that basically means she's going to get smeared with some oil by the bishop and that will give her the gift of the Holy Spirit. ("Whoooo, Holy Ghost, Holy Ghost! Whoooooo!") Think of it as a Bat Mitvah for Catholic kids. And I'm there as...um...a witness, a role model. I'm actually looking at it as a sort of honor, especially since it's the second go-round for me. I sponsored my sister when I was still in high school. Really, I guess a kid could do worse for role models, as long as you ignore the infrequent church attendance. I'm banking on God to do just that. I have been trying to curse people out less, after all.

I hate that freaking talking baby in the Quizno's commercial. Ugh. It was almost funny when it was a John Travolta movie...FIFTEEN YEARS AGO! Plus, whatever MS Paint-esque program they used to make the baby's mouth move looks like shit. Why didn't they just construct a horrifying, monstrous baby puppet of some sort? At least it would've had shock value; that would be something. I don't even know who voices the baby, but it sounds like the fat guy from Herman's Head. Trust me, that's not the sort of comparison you strive for as an actor. I guess if you were Horatio Sanz, it would be the proverbial dangling carrot. But he would just start laughing in the middle of the sketch and choke on the carrot. I'm not fond of Saturday Night Live, either.

One of my favorite subplots of reality television is the wide array of useless, half-assed "jobs" attributed to the contestants. I understand that you take whatever work you can find to pay the bills, especially as the Conservative Bloodsuckers find new and creative ways to funnel more and more money from the pockets of those who can least afford it. But if you're a waitress in a coffee shop, don't give me this "barista" crap. You serve coffee. You don't barist. Along those lines, you are not a "document manager". You are a file clerk, a paper pusher, a cubicle monkey. I love those contestants on the other end of the spectrum - those who embrace the absurdity and marginal nature of their work. I thought it had reached a new peak with Howie, the former male stripper and current meteorological student who yearned to be a Jedi...until he discovered that they didn't have sex so much. Then I tuned in to the season premiere of Survivor last night and discovered that one of the castaways was credited as a...magician's assistant. I have nothing to add to that. Color me impressed.

Why the hell are guys so crazy about losing their hair? I find myself flicking loose hairs off in the shower, brushing them off as they fall on my desk, running my hand across my hairline and imagining that it's getting farther away, peering at the top of my head in the mirror and making note of how much scalp is visible. Screw it. Even if my hair does fall out, that doesn't make me less of a person. I won't be less funny, less sensitive, less compassionate, less intelligent. I like my hair; it's always been thick and dark and soft. I even think it's kind of funny that I've got patches of gray. I'll miss it when I'm gone. But if anyone is shallow enough to dismiss me because I lack it, then it should be their loss. Just think of what a badass I'll be with the shiny, globular skull and thick, rich goatee. Maybe I will be less of a neurotic, jabbering sillyhead.

Probably not.

Current Music: Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds - Straight to You