In my current time zone, it’s about a quarter to the birthday. Actually, it was quarter to, before something fucked my computer. But now it’s past the date. I say it’s my birthday, and well, fuck here it is.

Forty three feels like a big number. Not big enough to get me a howdy do from the Today Show or any such bullshit. Do they still even do that, or was it all tied up with the hefty goofball weatherman? Where do the triple digit elderly go for a greeting these days?

Still and all, better than death, this having another birthday. But it ain’t exactly young.

I’m taking it as a clarion call to, I dunno, get my fucking shit together. If I die tomorrow, I die a glorified secretary. Whoo fucking hoo.

By the way, linking to the Today Show let me know that the big new news story, the top one listed, linked, dissected and worried about by thousands if not millions of Americans. The “hiccup girl” stopped doing her 15 minutes (and 38 days of frustration) thang.

Jesus fucking what’s wrong with us Christ. There’s a war. There will be elections. People are dying and lying. Hiccups, Anna’s corpse, way more important.

Now, you might give a fuck and wonder what I’ve been up to that obviously not writing here. We finished the housekeeping magnum opus.

Starting back with the winter time holiday fa la la la la, the boss gave me a gift card to get a custom bag from this store (whose products I do dig muchly).

Unable to decide which custom job to fashion or to kick up the total and get an art bag with someone else’s art, I decided to DIY my own bad self. So, with the magic of modern plastics chemistry I transferred some pics onto the blank artists canvas version and came up with this here customized dealio.

My photos of Cali on a Cali-style bike messenger bag. (The bag I plan use when I get off my last fat ass and actually bike to work without the lightning speed or any speed at all of a courier.)

Self-pleased and a couple of compliments later, I went with the flow when M. brainstormed the same idea large-scale and hanging over our couch. Stretching a couple of yards of muslin on six-foot canvas stretchers later, I’m done. I opted for iron-on photo transfers this time instead of an inadequately wee pot of magic acrylic photo transfer juice, ‘cuz of the size.

In the end, it’s M.’s slightly early b’day present. Mostly because the actual company that’s selling me his actual gift completely fucked me and the order. Never trust a kid on the customer service line who chats about the importance of arrival pre-birthday to get the fucking shipping right. Asshole.

It’s looking sadly like he’ll be getting something before his big day and something after but precious little on it. I’m time challenged.

(Don’t tell my employer they pay me for the illusion of getting time.)

Anyway, I present the opus.