Today's entry is more journal than blog. In fact, it may be like those old Larry King columns in USA Today...though hopefully more entertaining. It may contain an adult situation or two (but nothing juicy, of course).

I don't know if it's the times we live in or if the tides are all messed up or my stars are aligned funky or I did something funky in another life, or I'm just an idiot, but things are weird...and I just don't get people.

With all the things I've been getting involved in lately, I've found myself talking to a lot of people about the most mundane things. And I have to be honest, I'm down with Margaret Cho's old joke: I'd rather just blow someone than talk about the weather. Well, I can't answer to her, but I mean that figuratively. She may be more literal. When I become The All Being, I will outlaw small talk. I know, anti-social. But I'm a good little activist...I'll talk about the weather.

So, as I'm typing this I have CSI Miami on...we're 15 minutes into the show and David Caruso has taken off his sunglasses 5 times...literally. And what's the deal with all these cops with the Columbo-head-tilt thing. I think I've said this before, but it seems to have gotten worse...we reeeaaaaaaly don't need the graphic dead body shots...autopsies, wounds, etc. The FCC is focused on sex & farts, but extreme violence is fine. I'd rather see a fat lesbian orgy on network TV than a mass murder. But that's just me. It's getting to the point where next week will be another special Wiil & Grace...this week, Jack performs his first autopsy. (Insert Gay joke, here)

Oh, and speaking of lesbians. Why do most lesbians have short hair? I was at a meeting tonight and there were two lesbians there - and I know both of them...or of them, anyway. And I like them, they're nice people, committed activists, blah, blah, blah. But as I'm sitting there my mind started wandering...and I just started wondering...is the "do" a symbol of something? I'll have to ask someone. Hold on, let me check....

Nope...there's no www.askalesbian.com.

Back to CSI. I have to admit, Emily Proctor is a hottie. She's no Ann Coulter, but who is?

Ann, you little Republican vixen. I forgave you for not sending me a valentine, but enough is enough. I have dishes piling up so stop this foolishness and get over here. Yeah, I know. You think you're an intellectual. Or maybe you don't...right-wingers are supposed to reject intellectualism. But honey, let's face it. You're a walking, talking, shieking cliche. You are a dumb (fake) blonde. You insist Canada sent troups to Vietnam. You spew dumb-ass shit that no literate person could believe. I've never read your books, but they must have a lot of nice pictures in 'em to have so many dummies buy them.

Annie...you must be tired, having to think of all those big words with that pretty little head of yours. Aren't you tired of Bill Mahr drooling all over you? Come home, Annie. You'll never have to worry about the big, bad smart people making fun of you any more.

Sweet little Annie, I don't think you understand what a sacrifice this is for me. I don't like pompous, lying tramps. I'm more partial to brunettes...real ones. And I'm attracted to smart, funny, independent women who care about others and who have a sense of what people really want. I like women who think critically. I like women with a little meat on their bones. Look at you, girl (see pictures below). As you're making me a sandwich, make yourself one! I don't like mayo, but you should put extra on yours. Lord have mercy, you have Smeagal hands. Do you catch fish with those mitts? But I'm willing to take the bullet for the rest of society. And I have a ton of laundry that needs to be done. Come home, Ann Coulter. Your apron is waiting.

OK...where was I?

Music News!!! Yeah, remember...this site is supposed to be about Whitee & his music. Well, I went to my guitar lesson today, thinking it was a normal day and Robert said, "OK, you ready to record?"

Huh?

Uh, I guess...so we put down a guitar track for the demo for Leftovers of Wayne. I have to say, my guitar playing....well, I think I could hold my own around a campfire of deaf kids with weak hearing aid batteries. No Jimi Thing happening here. So now I get to take that and work on my vocals...which I would relate to...ummmm...Bob Dylan's fourth cousin removed, Phil. Phil Dylan. That's me. Phil Dylan, insurance salesman/bad vocalist. This record is gonna rock!