The danger of doing. Like clockwork.

I can choose from a great many things to write about, if I wish. Somehow, when the galactic cornucopia presents, it's so overwhelming that it becomes drab. I'm not interested enough in any of the things I could say to trouble myself with saying them. Or, I suppose I can say them, but I lack the verve to say them with any sort of fluorish.

I had another blowout on the freeway today. I put on my spare in under fifteen minutes. No one was killed.

I had another blowout. It almost marks a year since the last one, which happened at nearly the exact same spot on the 405. Uncanny. And if you count my car getting broken into and my stereo stolen and that quarter nearly unraveling me by getting lodged in my seat rail and finding that my sandwich was not in the bag when I drove away from Jack in the Box and getting that letter from my landlord about my rent increase and spending nauseating hours at the insurance agency watching very nice people not know what they were doing and trying to only thrum my fingers in my impatient imagination, it's been a crap week. If you count all of that.

I saw The Raveonettes at the El Rey on Thursday. They signed my CD and 45 single. They were very nice. The bass mix was unfortunately overwhelming. And their touring guitarist is sort of strangely overanimated in comparison to the original Danish two. I wondered if they roll their eyes and make fun of him behind his back. Tom Green was there. So was that other guitarist from Weezer. The girl he was with was rude. I've seen her before out on the concert scene. I'm amused when strangers are so memorably obnoxious that you can remember having not met them before.

I saw Beulah at the Troubadour on Friday. My friend Josh and I went out afterwards and met up with a team of his friends, including a very polite and dear fellow named Zack and an eager would-be musicologist called Jason who called someone on the East Coast at 3 A.M. their time in his attempt to remember the name of Olivia Tremor Control. Silly. We stood out on the street trying to decide where to go, while the smell of bacon and onions from one of those bacon-wrapped hot dog carts that crop up on the club scene enveloped us. I have to say, I'm going to eat one of those monstrosities one of these days. One of these days when I'm out with someone who won't hate me for it. I don't mind saying they smell delicious. Even though I'm certain they are filthy.

I meant to go to an exhibit opening for Jordan Crane at the Giant Robot Store on Saturday, but somehow the day got away from me. Instead, I watched Alice in Wonderland and Mr. Show and something else that happened to be on and painted and was a little bit pleased with myself in the end.

I shopped on Sunday and wished Whole Foods had a prime rib for me to purchase. It's great there. Sunday, I boiled corn on the cob, which I love. I love corn on the cob so much that when it's a-boil, I might be seen wringing my hands in that devious, squirrely way that implies I'm up to something. I get excited over corn on the cob. Sunday, I went to watch stand-up comedy at the Improv and was smoked on by the guy with Nick Swardson at the bar. That guy. The one with the show. You know the one.

While I was waiting for Costco to replace my tire, I had a slice of pizza on the pigeon-ridden patio. An old man to my right also ordered a slice and then topped it with a thick carpet of relish and onions, both meant for the hot dogs. It was an ungodly amount of onions, I tell you. Far more onions than you could ever get them to put on a pizza if you ordered them as a topping. A shocking onion quotient. Pigeons stink. And can I be overlooking the fact that relish can't possibly be a welcome addition to the in-mouth pizza melange. Surely not.

Wow, but there is an ace panel on Tough Crowd tonight. Except that one guy.

In a few hours, I will go vote. That's why I drove down today. Because I am inexplicably still registered to vote in San Diego. I will go vote and get my sticker and wear it to the car audio place where I will get my new stereo installed. I won't dilly dally this time. I can't stomach the silence. It leads to the singing of showtunes and the realization that I can't hit all of the high notes anymore.

It was too hot tonight for the sweater I wore. It was too hot to change a tire in a sweater. It was too hot to have a drink in a sweater in an air-conditioned bar. It was too hot to be October, and I was dismayed. My debate partner at Cornell rebelled against the prolonged snowfall (from October until May that year) by wearing shorts on May 7, because he protested the snow and denied it with his bare, goosepimpled skin. "It's the seventh of May," he said. "I refuse to allow it to be snowing." Sometimes, I find myself rebelling against the tepid, lingering summer by turtling my neck and sleeving my arms. It hasn't ever worked. It's a fool's campaign. If there is any sort of panel of weather gods, they're not paying attention to what I'm wearing. Ever.

It was too hot tonight for what I wore. When I came home, I languished in a shower and acknowledged my headache. I've since dried off, but my head still hurts.

Gross. It's that commercial with the guy who wears the jeans to bed and wakes up in them and wears them day after day because they're so "comfortable." I hope he at least washes his sheets.

I will go vote in a few hours, and I don't kid myself that the largeness of my influence makes this noteworthy, but I command you Californians to vote "no" on the recall and to prevent the Republican highjacking that is predicted to be imminent. Don't elect Arnold Schwarzenegger governor. Even if you think it might be fun. Even if you think it might get you laid. (It won't.) I'm so tired of fortune and favor falling on the undeserving. I'm even more tired of being bossed around by people who are dumber than I am. Don't disappoint me, California. I've had a lousy week.