I'm on my waaay-haaey

Here's a weird story: Everyone in my family got a tattoo yesterday afternoon. My mom, my pop and my baby brother. Weird, right? Very weird. Too weird. I'm still not sure I believe them. If they'd thrown in the dog as well, I wouldn't at all, but they didn't. This is either disciplined lying or the truth. Anyway, they knew they could go without me because I don't want a tattoo. Because I can't commit to one symbol forever and ever amen. Maybe someday.

You know, since I bonked my head really bad that one time in May (April?) I can't have more than one or two drinks without feeling dizzy and awful. I don't like it. It's just not right.

I totally talked through the whole Jet set on Saturday (I was in the back, where the talking should happen, so don't make a bad face at me for being a nasty concertgoer). Maybe it was just that, to me, the show ended when Sloan ended, but Jet really didn't hold my interest (aside from my compulsion to sing along to their reworkings of "Home Sweet Home" and "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" -- come on, have you heard the album? -- with original lyrics, of course. You don't have to be on-key to be on fire, kids.)