Trick's Daddy

I don't know what I find odder in this USA Today story (from a while back) - that NFL football player Bryant McKinnie ran a $375K tab at a strip club, or that said strip club belongs to rapper Trick Daddy's... daddy. Or that it'll likely end up in court.

It used to be in sports that NBA players were the bad boys, sleeping with tons of women in different cities, smoking weed, taking cocaine, some of them catching HIV, others getting sued for rape. But 80-game seasons require something to change one's mind...

But football players took it up a notch, what with their huge salaries for 16 games of work and a growing feeling of entitlement turned into sexcapade boat trips with hookers and strippers (in which McKinnie was involved, come to think of it...), domestic violence, armed robbery, shooting oneself in the leg while carrying a gun in their trousers, and so much more.

And somehow, knowing at least one rapper was raised with money coming from women getting paid to follow orders and remove clothing makes a little more sense. As Jay-Z and DMX said, for some of them, it's ''Money Cash, Hoes''...

Guess I'm Doing Fine

It's not the first snow storm of the year, it might not even be the second one, but it's the most annoying, for sure. The first one to make me forgo sleep because it'll be more of a bitch to get home and come back to work than just stay here and write.

I'll need caffeine and uppers: Pepsi, Rockstar (pomegranate flavour, with vodka, because it doesn't specify a daily limit I can intake), Wake Ups. To start. Then, in a couple of hours, I'll decide if I need more - or stronger - material. Hopefully not, because I'm more than due for a full night's sleep tonight... seven nights in the making. Wouldn't want my day's consumption to ruin the night I so rightfully deserve.

I'm seeing birds flying in the top-right corner of my right eye, my left eye feels like it's covered in Vaseline, my balance is off a bit; I probably look like a drunk when I walk the hallways going to washroom.

My headphones are on, and ironically '80s-style goth-rock fills my ears, adding to the sense that I'm out of synch with the world; Joy Division's Transmission, And One's Military Fashion Show, The Cure's The Blood... never has the 'random' feature been so focused.

My stomach grawls, as wretched gases fight to leave my body's premises. I'm freezing one minute, boiling the next. Outside, the world is not only covered in white Artic Leftovers but actually drowning in it, not inch by inch but foot by foot. Sitting inside, ten feet from the windowsill, I wonder if death will feel this weird, if I'm nearing it somehow with my decadent lifestyle. I wouldn't be ready, that's for sure.

To think two months ago I was in Cuba, the one place on earth that makes you truly wonder about divinity, but also the one place where you wouldn't need it.

My body is doing all it can to shut down. My eyes close, my brain blinks, my mouth won't open. Nine more hours and it'll be smooth sailing. Cold sweat covers me, shivers take over, a wonderful piece of machinery that needs to rest.

Beck comes on, with Guess I'm Doing Fine. Figures.