Sasha finally chewed a big hole in the chenille blankie on my bed. I think my kitten has the OCD. He is obsessively licky and apparently has an oral fixation. I don’t mind it — except for the whole eating my pretty things part. Oh well. He don’t know any better.

I think it would be awesome if a friend of mine with a big collection of outsider music were to come out here to the west coast oh, say, next month and bring with him a specially burned CD of freak tunes just for me. In return I would give this person a beer beverage, or two. I wonder if I know anyone like that? Hmmm.

The first time I heard real “outsider music” was about nine years ago. My pal Jessica had gotten a hold of a vinyl copy of the Shaggs record, right before it became hip to do so. I was utterly floored that this had been recorded and pressed and circulated. In fact I think that this is one of the appeals of outsider music — the pure faith its creators have in themselves, in spite of the odds, in spite of all accepted taste.

Speaking of bad music, that evil prick downstairs is having another big dance party in his bedroom. I was hoping he would die before I moved out, but alas, he shall live on to torture the next tenant with the misfortune to occupy this bedroom. I was thinking I might get some tap shoes and practice my dancing in the days leading up to my move out in two weeks, but I don’t know where to get them and why waste my money on this jackass? Exactly. Karma will be enough for him, I don’t need to sink to his level.

But it would still be fun to do some tapdancin.