Tsk Tsk Tsk.

I'm wholly disappointed in the denizens of DC, who apparently spent this weekend on tenterhooks, wondering if Marion Barry will go to jail. Again. This was instead of going to the sweet, sweet Nethers show (which exponentially increased my starry-eyed worship of Nikki West, who is like an Appalachian Kim Gordon). And Lord knows I had the sun patches abounding on 18th street all to myself last Saturday.

That's why I'm advertising the two most important events of the next month(ish) far in advance.

First of all. Friday, March 30th.
Personally, I think they should invite My Latest Novel to be part of their arty retinue. They could change the song to be When We Were Were Werewolves! And we banged on our pianos, lalala!

Sorry, this whole daylight savings thingy is awesome; LOVING the extra sunlight, and when it starts being light in the morning again, it'll be that much less of a sisyphean feat to get out of bed every day. But since I the batteries in my biological clock are those environmentally friendly rechargeables that don't actually work, my bio clock gets mighty irascible when forced to do actual work. I am in full groggedy mode here, too sleepy to even be cranky.

Anyhoo, on April 16th, take a few hours of work off in the afternoon to come and march for the right to send snarky notes to your senator that will actually mean something. I hope lots of people come so that I can have voting rights so I can sign all those congressional action alerts and finally feel like I'm doing some good in the world without actually having to do work.