Practicing our uuuuhhhhrrr, J getting sicker as the uhr progresses and our accent- not what you in the Midwest here call an O- progressing or sort of.. what do you call this? but this. what do you call a snooze alarm then? Nothing, we just wake up.

Oh man, Europe is kicking our ass in golf too.

Tonight's poems: oat bran banana bread and a quiche of thyme, gruyere and mushrooms. cleaning out fridge for perhaps a move as soon as next weekend.

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9 p.m. last night realized Colleen was in town and playing at the Bottle. Get there immediately. It is purely acoustic instruments, cello with the price tag dangling, sleepy effects pedals.. which is to say me likey.. more process on display than I would have thought, but what she does with a hand-cranked music box with distortion and loops is pure enchantment. In the Wire misc. of the event, she is preceded and followed by spleen-jostling aggression, though the latter was less spleen and more Brazilian Gold Chains meets Grace Jones, a.k.a. phat beats and lame (um, in need of a grave there).

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(Another niche market:)

In Art Institute today, in Art Institute gift shop, Look! There's Hiroshige on a wife-beater!