I had my biorhythms mapped on Friday. My handsome naturopath stuck wires on my forehead and palms and then sadistically challenged me, grilling me on my colors like I was a kindergartner (I got them all right, by the way), making me count backwards by seven and recall traumatic childhood memories. The resulting data will be used to establish why I am whatever it is that I am, at which point we still won't know what to do, but at least we'll know how.

On Saturday I got loaded at the Little Red Hen with a couple other idiots, gossiped about each other for a few hours and then I walked home in the rain. Lori's been sick this weekend, not with swine flu as I paranoidly assumed at first, but with some benign yet still certain illness that kept her pretty homebound. We watched some 70s redneck/revenge-type thrillers, one of which pitted Jan Michael-Vincent against Kris Kristofferson (KK was the villain, a rare combination of alienated Vietnam vet and corrupt small town sherrif) while Bernadette Peters stands by and sticks out like a sore thumb. It's on Hulu, you can figure out the title yourself ...

Sunday we enjoyed a fruitful End Times practice, solving some puzzles and tightening some bolts on the songs we'll be recording over the next several weeks. It's totally gonna work. Lori was feeling better so we took a walk and stopped at a fancy CapHill-style joint on Greenwood where I had Canadian whisky for the first time in years and remembered why I only ever order bourbon.