Happy 28th Birthday, Johhny! I hope you get a drunk, get a lap dance, get laid, get a tattoo you'll regret, throw up, and a bunch of other things you're supposed to do on your birthday. 28 looks good on you, buddy.

The fella and I are having a hermit weekend because moths are flying out of our wallets. And the moths are broke, too. We have multiple options of things we could be doing if the well hadn't run dry: going to C-Bus for a visit, hitting the 9th Annual Rockabilly Freakshow, going to Howl at the Moon (which was a sing-along good time and would be better if all the fratties has been wiped out of the crowd population), hanging with Johnny Birthday Boy at a free show. But it looks like Hermitsville for us.

Though Hermitsville started out as Dullsville when Puff fell asleep at 6:00 and I got a serious case of flipper finger. His remote has never felt so molested as I really caressed it's up and down channel button. But I can't even really remember anything I watched. Nothing sank in. It was all flip, flip, flip, flip. It didn't really kick Hermit Weekend off right but at least I got boatloads of sleep. I'm up and at 'em bright and shiney...working...and I'm only about 15% tired and aggitated. The cleaning broads are here and all I smell is Pinesol. It's irritating. My percentage of rage may be increasing.

Maybe we'll venture out into the daylight. Soak in some of this unpredictable Ohio weather. Who knows? We could just as well stay in our bed, watching movies, eating junk, and poking each other every now and then to make sure we're still alive. Poke, poke, poke.