2004-02-02

My weekend was fine! Thank you for asking! I hope yours was too! Actually, yesterday I spent ten minutes just standing next to the kitchen window, mesmerized by the novel sensation of sunshine on my face. Damn near made me write a fucking poem.

Let�s just nip this climate rant in the bud, shall we, and move on to Robin�s Creepy Obsessions. More fun for you, more humiliating for me: it�s a win-win situation.

My celebrity fixations, the patented pabulum substitute for human interaction, are becoming disturbingly abstruse. Every Sunday night at nine o�clock, I curl up on the couch, eat something of questionable nutritive value and watch Da Vinci�s Inquest, feeding my inexplicable wrinkly-dude crush on Nicholas Campbell. Oh, that no-nonsense attitude! That omnipresent trench coat! Those truly frightening eyebrows! On our weekly dates, his pugnacious charisma and three-flush potty mouth set my heart all a-flutter. (And three cheers for the CBC, brazenly broadcasting the word �bullshit� all helter-skelter in prime time.) I tell you, if I was shooting junk on East Hastings, I�d want my skanky corpse to be unearthed from its dumpster by Dominic Da Vinci: this is true love.

I�m not sure why middle-aged men in suits have suddenly begun to register on my hottie radar. This is a distressing trend. Am I getting old? Whither wallet chains and sideburns? What�s next? Will I stock up on batteries and lock myself in the house for Matlock marathons? Will I develop a taste for deep-fried toxic lard so I can moon over the depiction of Colonel Sanders on a tub of KFC?

Yes; my chosen men may mature, but I never shall.