Blogspot, you fucking dyke.

The CMJ festival is in town (CMJ = Cumulus Monkey Jamboree).

As hurricanes are fed by the rising water vapor of warm oceans, so is the CMJ festival fed by the envy of biology majors who don't get show passes. Since I live with a music business kid and a writer for a bite-sized weekly, the disparity is all the more apparent. From my perch in front of the television, watching a Tivo-ed marathon of America's Next Top Model, alone, I ooze scorn.

There are good things about the whole affair too! Long story short--Blaire works for Universal Records and they gave her an executive suite and an expense account. She held a party last night where there was a lot of jumping on the bed. Upon leaving sometime around noon today, I jacked an upscale food and wine magazine chock full of recipes, went to Chinatown, went home and cooked the best chicken ever.

(I bought four chili peppers for 50 cents and Joe had to spot me. I am so classy.)

So while you, gentle reader, browse blogs hijacked by stories of the rapture of Arcade Fire or Regina Spektor, remember the little people who spent this weekend doing Genetics homework and cooking for their boyfriends.