It makes me laugh, smile, and feel happy and sad, and identify

Yesterday, Dr. Jackson brought a bunch of freshly made venison jerky from his hunting trip. It was some spicy shit; I just finished the last stick he gave me and my mouth is on fire, from my lips to my tongue. Good shit, even if it did make me cough and cry from time to time.

I'm reading Salad Days by Charles Romalotti. It's a great fucking novel, the kind I haven't read a lot of. Things that are just true. It's up there with American Skin and Hairstyles of the Damned as far as punk novels go. It's up there, really, with all of the good novels I've read, in that it makes me laugh, smile, and feel happy and sad, and identify.

I went to the London Calling show at Schuba's last night. It was pretty good. Not the Clash, though (not that I was expecting it to be). But I think tribute bands are best enjoyed with someone who can appreciate the tribute, and I went alone.

I really should wrap up these X-mas presents I have here, so I don't have to deal with it tomorrow or the next day when - ironically - family's in town and everything gets crazy hectic for the holiday.