On a Sunday morning sidewalk, I’m wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
‘Cause there’s something in a Sunday that makes a body feel alone.
And there’s nothing short o’ dying that’s half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk, and Sunday morning coming down.
Like Johnny Cash and Kris Kristofferson, I’ve never liked Sundays. There’s something simultaneously sluggish and urgent about this day, a feeling that lies somewhere between Man, I Should Just Turn On The TV And Go Back To Bed and Holy Crap, I Haven’t Yet Finished Running All Of These Errands. Never mind that on this particular Sunday, I have to prepare to leave for Houston on Wednesday and Jamaica next Sunday.
A certain aging diorama still needs to be taken down and put away:
Time to attack it before the next Mardi Gras sneaks up on us, huh?
Speaking of dioramas, check out this one at Richard’s. We need to create and dedicate a musical to this unsung comic of the NOLA blogosphere. Yes, Richard, I think you’re funny and you amuse me. But not like a clown. Don’t shoot me in the foot. Please.
Speaking of funny, thanks to the return of my seasonal allergies and attendant sneezing fits, I almost spewed whipped cream all over my laptop just now.
What else? Oh, yes:
– A sneak peek of the new Star Wars animated feature, The Clone Wars
– BBC News: Secret lives of badgers revealed
– Bills, Krewe du Vieux bills, C.R.A.P.S. internets work, taxes and the gym … all still sans alcohol.
It’s another Sunday coming down.
That’s always been one of my favorite Sunday songs. I like the part about fried chicken, and especially “the beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad so I had one more for desert.”