Standardized Boy, Segment One

Max places the tip of his number two Fort Ticonderoga pencil in the center of the bubble corresponding to the answer "B: concave." In a swift, meticulous manner, he conjures a series of tightly overlapping circles, a flurry of interweaving graphite that forges a cyclone around the answer bubble until the white space is entirely obscured. He stares at the newborn void and traces its circumference once, then twice, then knits a final crosshatched layer of pencil over the entire bubble making it breathtakingly opaque, arrogantly finite. It is a monolith. And it's perfect.

After placing his pencil, still warm from his soft hands, into its shallow cradle at the top of his desk, Max ceremoniously closes his test booklet, presses his palms against the cover in order to smooth the crease that now scars the binding, and glances at his classmates, all folded over their desks looking like overworked accountants. What utter dummies, thinks Max, as he simultaneously pushes his desk forward while using the backs of his thighs to eject his chair in the opposite direction. An industrial screech sounds. The gnashing maw of some mechanical bird. The other students flinch and fire lethal stares in Max's direction, but his smug smirk disarms them, deflects the volley, fries the circuits until they all return to their labor defeated. I'm done, thinks Max. A familiar urge swells inside his head, a ritual desire to fling his finished test toward the dozing proctor and scream that IT WAS EASY. IT WAS SO FUCKING EASY. If any of you NEANDERTHALS need me, I'll be in the lunchroom figuring out how to budget my inevitable six-figure salary. Good luck with those comprehension questions, Joey. The mood of the first reading sample was most certainly not "fuzzy," you backwards hick idiot. I hope you sit awkwardly on your dad's rifle that you insist on bringing to school in that piece of shit Datsun and blow your asscheeks off. CLEAN OFF. Then you'd have a concave ass.

Max chuckles to himself at his little joke and realizes that he has been enjoying this delicious daydream with full attention from his classmates. The proctor has awakened and her crazed, bulbous eyes are shifting focus to center from the sides, like some hideous, ancient toad.

"Mr. Reyes," she rasps, her gnarled hands groping for the desk in front of her as she leans forward. "You done?" 

"I...am," replies Max in an unintentional, interrogatory tone that makes it sound as if he were soul-searching. Or coming out of a coma.

"Hey, hot shit," says a particularly handsome, athletic, and infuriating boy from the back of the classroom. "What a shock, Fag Max is done."

The other students titter like the callous sycophants they are as the clever Adonis, Clint Bilko, lets out a hardy chortle and extends his middle finger at Max. Freshman year, Clint hosted a viewing of the legendary sci-fi film Mad Max, and, with a certain amount of pride, announced what would become Max's default moniker for the rest of his high school stint: Fag Max. Despite Max's insistence that the pun wasn't very good, it stuck. The fact that the name "Clint Bilko" seemed to have the potential for countless filthy variations went largely unnoticed by Max's class. Lint Bilbo. Stunt Dildo. Clit Butthole. All neglected retaliations, wasted fodder at Max's feet.

Though he can feel Clint's attractive yet vacant eyes boring into his temples, Max quietly ignores the humiliation, collects his test book, along with any arrant shards of dignity he can find, and walks toward the proctor's desk at the head of the class. The attention is overwhelming, and he feels as if he were a celestial mass being bombarded as it trundles through space. Unsteady. Near collapse. He places his test on the proctor's desk, the state emblem blandly adorning its cover, and turns toward the door.

This is the first moment in Max's life in which he feels the urge to kill.

My obsession with awful television knows no bounds

The fact that I can find no references to the fact that Bachelor Pad 2's delusional villain Kasey sounds an awful lot like Meatwad should be seen as a sign of the further decline of our civilization. Last night he attempted to draw sympathy from a studio audience when he revealed that he suffered from a speech impediment. He neglected to mention that he exacerbates the effects of his unfortunate disease by gargling every day with two and a half cups of buttermilk.

My favorite of Kasey's verbal atrocities?

"It's beating...it's throbbing...you know what that means? It's guard and protect time. Are you ready?"

"I want to punch him across the face and say 'that's for America.'"

So, here in the afterglow of Bachelor Pad 2, I raise my glass of buttermilk to you, Kasey. Oh, and when you predicted victory on the final challenge, a hundred foot vertical climb, because you're "witty...." Well...I'm not sure you know what words mean. But, you'll be missed. Take it from your voicesake:

Kitten Vlog 2.0 - Reboot

Risen...LIKE THE MIGHTY PHOENIX

Years ago, some friends and I had a sketch show called Friends of Davey Jones. That enterprise is, as Dickens may have observed, as dead as a doornail. So, I have decided to redirect my insufferable narcissism and create this mighty turd you see before you. What you'll eventually find here:

1. Hard-hitting, bacon-oriented commentary
2. The return of the Kitten Vlog (the original star bit the big one)
3. Videos of my area (static photos are for girls, Weiner)
4. Regret

What you won't find here (from this point on):

1. Sentiment
2. Compassion
3. Pity
4. Virtue
5. Amusing anecdotes about children
6. Wholehearted recommendations
7. Life tips
8. Convention photos
9. Tributes or memorials
10. Praise of Guy Fieri
11. Praise of Dane Cook
12. Cautionary medical tales
13. Discussions of music or bands
14. Catchphrases
15. Unconditional love of Brooklyn
16. Hope
17. Self-respect
18. Integrity
19. Revelations
20. Quick and easy recipes

I look forward to working with you.

Blogging mere inches from my computer

I suppose if I'm going to blog consistently again, I need to really embrace this mobile hogwash. So, I'm experimenting with an app called Blogger Droid. So far, it's a tremendous pain in the ass, as my fat shaky fingers can't seem to navigate the Droid keyboard with the same elegant dexterity I use to pound out this irrelevant tripe on a normal computer.
Also, this app forces me to stare at ads the whole time I'm attempting to blog. In fact, right now a banner on the top of my screen is asking me not to miss CMT's new sitcom Working Class. Well, it's not asking me it's telling me. I can't imagine a more poorly aimed bit of marketing than that. I really can't. Unless readers of Oprah's blog get ads for colleges. Then that might be even more misguided.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.6.5

Blog Babies

I realize that if I produced children at the same rate I blog, I'd have a series of unfortunately sized premature babies lying about the apartment. And, like premature babies, these blog posts are relatively useless. Sure, they're fun to look at and ridicule with your friends, but put a mop in their hands and what've you got? You have three and a half pounds of quivering flesh and...well, a mop. Also, they stink. The blog posts, I mean. Well, I've never smelled a premature baby, so I won't make presumptions about their odor. Broccoli? I only ask because some newborns I've met smell faintly of produce. I've often heard mothers refer to their wombs as "ovens" and that the child inside is "baking." So, do premature babies smell like cake batter? That can give you salmonella can't it? This whole business about the potentially lethal effects of premature babies on adults is deeply unsettling.

Speaking of unsettling, did you hear the news? Yeah, neither did I. I find a lot of the news I was reading or seeing on television disturbing, so now I go without. I'm sure the salmonella baby thing will be on there eventually. I just got fed up with all the men wearing ties barking at each other. A list of other things I'm fed up with:

1. To continue with the "men who wear ties" motif, why are we no longer buttoning the top button of the shirt, fellas? Do we all have fat necks? Do I have a fat neck?
2. If I have a fat neck, is there even an exercise for that? I suppose I could hang weights on my ears, but I suffer from eczema and my ears are very sensitive.
3. While I was passing a playground during my evening constitutional (a phrase, I'm happy to say, I lifted from Disney's delightful 101 Dalmatians), a group of school children implied that I was a homosexual gentleman! I would like to pick their brains as to how they know. Is there a test? Please remember I have sensitive ears.
4. Basketball.
5. Persistent insurance salesmen.
6. Persistent diarrhea.
7. Loss of important prescription medication.

Indianapolis: Greek God of Indians

We find ourselves somewhere between Akron and Columbus Ohio at the moment on a trip to Indianapolis. Akron, it should be noticed, shares a lot in common with my hometown of Bangor, Pennsylvania in that they are both towns in which absolutely nothing ever happened. After we mistakenly drove through a particularly bad section of Akron, I couldn't help but think there'd be a high crime rate in the town if anybody actually lived there. Despite the ubiquitous economic depression here, the local newspaper seems surprisingly left-wing. I suppose that's one of the reasons this state is so confounding around election time.

One of the pleasant discoveries we've made (well, that I've made...Mandy and her friend Cris have known about them for some time) is a series of quick-marts called "Sheets." Their signature novelty is an express deli system they've dubbed "MTO," which stands for "made to order," though we came up with alternate meanings:
My Testicle Odor
Mike's Tremendous Orgasm
Mis-Tentacled Octopus
My Toaster's Off

And so on. Anyway, more to come from Indianapolis and Sunday's Indy 500.

Squeezing out a blog on the road

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Those negroes are stealing my health care!

Look.

I don't have a pot to piss in, but I would give more tax money to insure every American has a chance at health care. And the very fact that I even have to write the word "chance" is indicative of a glaring omission from the bill that's on the table, and that omission is the public option. That option will never be considered, at least in our lifetimes, so the current bill is the one we're stuck with.

It was, if memory serves, a Republican who said, correctly, that the essential difference in this debate about health care is whether you consider health coverage a right or a privilege. Well, I believe it's a right. And, if I take a quick glance around at Britain, Canada, France, Japan, and most of the industrialized world, I don't think I'm too far off of what most populations think. In that guarantee of the physical well-being of every citizen, we find a communal agreement that used to be an integral part of American society (special bonus quiz: resurrect your great grandfather and ask him about health care. And, when he wiped the cobwebs from his barren eye sockets and shouted "Health WHAT?," feel free to shoot him in the head with a musket because all zombies should be killed).

This is more of a race issue than most will admit. The argument goes "I don't want to have to pay for health care for THEM." Ok. That's a fair point. But who fights your wars? You see a lot of trust fund kids swarming to the front line? Be realistic.

We are a first world nation with a third world mentality about health care. In theory, it should be better here. It isn't.

I Hereby RELEASE THE BAN!!!

As with most folks with half a brain in their corpulent, American heads, I occasionally go through periods of intense self-loathing. I also go through periods of trying to find gainful employment. Those two seemingly conflicting factors led me to restrict readership of this blog for a period of time because I entertained the fantasy that potential employers would Google my name and find my slightly abrasive blog and, upon reading it, would electronically render my application null and void by the power vested in the Mayor of the Internets. I've since realized that said potential employers are most likely squeezing out giant dumps on my resume and they may not, in fact, actually exist. Unicorns dry-humping on the corner of 22nd Street and 4th Avenue, Brooklyn are a more probable sight right now than job offers.

So, eschewing the traditional story, I offer a few snippets of what I've been thinking about lately (OOOOOOOH, I bet you're SOOOOOO excited. All six of you):

1. Diversity really isn't all that great (now I'm just attacking potential employers, but whatever). A moron from Zaire is much the same as a moron from Long Island City, only the fellow from Zaire may have an exotic accent, depending on who you're talking to. My point is that far too much attention is being paid these days to the source of the ideas over the ideas themselves. Employing some asshole from Mozambique because it's a sexy idea and it fulfills some misguided notion that a corporation appears more sophisticated is not a sound business stratagem. If the person you just hired is spouting off the same bullshit rhetoric as everyone else but with an Australian twang, what's the fucking point?

2. Continuing that idea, I think it's high time all companies became meritocracies. And I'm not talking about grabbing the best and brightest from colleges and other companies. Resumes can be fabricated and GPAs misleading. Before the interview, throw the fucker a trident and have him fight a polar bear. Now, we're talking utile skills. Better yet, tear the candidate's resume up in front of him and ask him to defuse a bomb or everyone in the office dies. You're looking at a future CEO if he gets through the first few wires without sobbing.

3. New York goes out of its way to remind you of how much you both love it and hate it all the same time. It's the reality TV show of cities.

More to come. There's too much to say right now. Horrifying explorations into a curmudgeon's routine. Stay tuned, won't you?

Oh, stop it

Lately I've been reading a lot about some right-wing paranoia regarding President Obama's alleged plan to turn the United States into a socialist state. National health care, apparently, will give way to some mystical sociopolitical cataclysm and mark the end of this great experiment in democracy while condemning the good people of America to bread lines...presuming they have any time left after waiting in line for toilet paper and cheese. Thus, our magnificent empire crumbles.

First of all, stupid, do you honestly think that any real change is possible in this stupid country of ours? Our nation is run by corporations. Not by the people. Not by the president. Not by grand ideas of freedom, justice, or this bullshit patriotism everybody seems so mesmerized by. It's run by corporations who will crush any idea that doesn't make a buck.

Secondly, and to continue that idea, even if health care reform DOES come to this country, you can rest assured that it will be a disgusting, mutated hybrid of socialized medicine and the good ol' privatized system we've all been fucked by. You think insurance companies are going to sit idly by while their livelihood is taken away? Your insurance company OWNS you, you ridiculous inmate, so don't you worry your pretty little head about socialism because there's a huge capitalist thug in the yard and he'll do anything to protect his bitch.

Please, please, please stop pretending that any of this political nonsense actually means anything. It doesn't. Believe me, whatever happens, you'll still get fucked EXACTLY the same way as you always did. So, chin up.

Tough racket

One of the perks of the reception position I'm currently filling is fielding the barrage of sales calls this place gets by the truckload every day. Whatever job you currently pretend to do (unless you're cleaning out sewers with your bare hands in the Philippines) I am absolutely certain that it's not as psychologically damaging as a job in fucking sales. Especially when it involves cold-calling people during an economic recession. Honestly, now, in 2009, it'd be easier to convince a person to consent to butt rape than it would be to get them to buy anything. So, I'm not shocked when these sales folk are audibly stressed out on the phone.

An example (the name of the company has been changed to protect the innocent):

ME (picking up phone): LBR Inc.

WILLY LOMAN: Can I speak to the person in charge of retirement benefits?

ME: No.

WILLY LOMAN: (in a strange mock weeping voice) WHY NOT????

No, I'm not kidding. These people call disinterested parties all day and they've lost their minds. Any semblance of cordiality or professionalism is thrown out the window as soon as they know you're on to them. Today's example:

ME: LBR Inc.

SHELLEY "THE MACHINE" LEVENE: Who is the person in charge of your photo copier equipment?

ME: We're actually happy with the set-up we have now, thanks.

LEVENE: (pause) HELLO?! THAT'S NOT WHAT I ASKED YOU!!!

Click.

Indeed, that isn't what he asked me, but I'm not sure my cutting to the chase should warrant his wanting to pull my balls off with his teeth.

What I've noticed is that these poor dopes are now resigned to one of two states of being: playful nonchalance or mind-numbing rage. After you pull back the curtain on their little game, you get to see which character steps out and it's actually pretty fascinating. I mean, can you imagine being a photocopier salesman in Manhattan, walking into work every morning knowing that your livelyhood depends on your ability to sucker people into purchasing items they most likely already have and are perfectly happy with? The very fact that you don't wedge the barrel of a double-action revolver into your mouth and pull the trigger while tears of relief cascade down your face is a blessed miracle.

Knockin' me out with those American thighs

I'm not sure if it's a matter of upbringing or neurological endowment, but New York City commuters seem to be unable to sense the critical moment when their expansive, sweaty flesh gently abuts another human being. Sure, we've all experienced a lovable scamp who doesn't seem to understand that his awful body has crossed over into foreign territory, but what's even more insufferable is the moment when this cretin leans into it, as if he's discovered a magic cushion in the subway car. No sir, that's my elbow. You're sitting on my elbow.

On the newer trains, each bench is bookended by metal railings that form a sort of grating that separates those standing by the doors from those sitting at the end of the bench. On the older trains, these gratings were actually solid walls through which no flesh could pass. Now, loose skin can creep, like jelly through the tines of a fork, through the piping and rest on the shoulder of whatever unsuspecting dope is unfortunate enough to be sitting beneath it. I am, more often than not, that very dope. What I find shocking is that the owner of the flab pressing against mine rarely acknowledges we're touching. Either these folks don't have nerve endings in their asscheeks, or, to them, this is acceptable contact, a sort of agreed upon evil we all must endure. Now, if I were to jump up and kiss them tenderly on the nape of their neck, I have a strong feeling that the social contract would be rendered null and void.

What I don't understand is how anyone can be comfortable with rubbing up against a stranger. Of course, there are perverts, but most of the time I'm being molested by regular people. I can sense immediately when any part of my body is near someone else's. As a result, I rarely step on toes, I know instinctively when to move to a less intrusive position, and I most certainly know when my skin is dangerously close to alien beings. Hell, this sensation even extends to where my BAG is in space, much less my person. Do people not FEEL the presence of someone else? If so, doesn't it creep them out?

The Prospect Avenue Affair

I often feel as if I was born woefully late, as I seem to be drawn to old-timey language and entertainment. Occasionally, I'll throw on a radio serial from the 40s and bask in the "tune in next week" anticipation of it all. The show Lost is sort of like that and I suppose that's why I'm drawn to it. I guess I'm not only drawn to these serial-type dramas, but I actively seek them out. For instance, while waiting for a train at the Prospect Avenue stop, I noticed a bit of writing on one of the I-beams:



Where, indeed. At first I thought this was an isolated chunk of graffito, and, in fact, it was painted over a few days later. The truth, however, is that this was episode one in what may be an interesting tale of pornography, crime, and butt sex. The next week, I documented this brash offer:



Forgetting for a moment that this gentleman's slogan sounds dangerously close to a hotdog advertisement, I think it's really interesting that there may really be a pornographic program, most likely of the internet variety, that is shot on this platform on the R train. Throughout the ensuing week, I saw new graffiti on the wall that poked fun at a transit cop who reportedly got in on the action and was admonished for having "a small dick." Bear in mind that ALL of this is painted over within a few days of its being written, so it's almost as if there is a string of dialogue between this aspiring porn producer and an MTA employee, who must surely have read the messages before he/she paints over them. Speculation, you say? Well, in response to seemingly nothing (as there were no previous offers written in someone else's hand), I found this tidbit this morning:



The plot thickens. As does this dude's member.

I know this is all probably some tweener thinking he's being cute, but I would love for it to be real and for real trouble to befall both the anonymous poster and the MTA. I'll keep you posted.

Secret eating!

Last night saw your intrepid reporter at a bar dangerously close to where he used to work (I noticed all of the shelving is still up...weren't we supposed to be out of there four months ago?). After several rounds of what midtown Manhattan tries to pass off as a happy hour, my former colleagues suggested we go to a somewhat hidden Japanese restaurant. Now, this mystic eatery was something of a myth where I used to work, a place few had been to and practically no one spoke of. So, I was not surprised when my pal, after we'd walked a few blocks, herded us toward a simple, nondescript door sandwiched between a hotel and a flashy fast food joint.

ME: Wait. Wait, this is it?

HE: Yes.

ME: This is a restaurant?

HE: Yes.

ME (thinking): Do we need a password?

I can honestly say I didn't know what to expect. I wouldn't have been shocked if all three of us were promptly gutted with sushi knives and left to bleed out in an alley. However, the small room into which we were led was as understated as the door and it was filled with Japanese men in business attire chatting away and ignoring the fact that three American dudes just seemingly stumbled upon their hideaway. My friend, a frequent customer, was warmly greeted and we all sat down to enjoy dinner which, like the place itself, was a complete mystery as there is no set menu. You're asked how hungry you are, a little or a lot, and whatever Japanese delight the chef has concocted that evening is brought to your table until you tell them to stop. We were treated to noodles in caviar, cucumbers served with a rich Japanese mayonnaise, shaved bits of fried fish, and an unbelievable Japanese curry.

The meal ended the way it began, in a sort of dreamy dissipation. We all parted ways, promising to see each other more regularly. But we didn't speak about going back to the restaurant. It was a secret place. I'm not sure if I could ever find it again.

Thanks MTA!

Your subway fare at work:


Thanks for all the help. God, I hope this corrupt and poorly run company gets burnt to the ground. I'm buying a bike.

It's hot

Real hot (click to enlarge):

Laborious

Part of the fun of unemployment is trudging through the painful and wonderfully inefficient bureaucracy behind it all. For instance, telephone directories for most major companies can be convoluted, but government help lines take automation to an almost cartoonish extreme. After about fifteen minutes of the usual choose-your-own-demise style menu system, the New York Department of Labor hotline prompted me, at long last, to press 3 if I would like to ask a question. I was convinced that the next command heard would be:

"If you have an easy question, press "1." If you have a hard question, press "2." If you would like to ask your question in a high-pitched voice, press 3.""

And so on.

Finally getting through to an operator didn't help anything. I was immediately placed on hold for another ten minutes while being told by the robot voice that there was a "high volume" of other out of work suckers waiting to be gravely disappointed by their state government. So, when I did get through to a questionably live person, she suggested I write a letter.

ME: A what?

HER: A letter.

ME: On paper?

You see, this is why people jump at the chance to cheat the government out of ANYTHING because if you do play by the rules, which in this case I was trying to do, you go through so much more of a hassle than if you simply break the law. It is actually easier and less time consuming to go to jail than to spend weeks, months, and years attempting to file the appropriate paperwork for any given task in this country. Seriously. WRITE A LETTER? WHO WRITES A FUCKING LETTER EVER ANYMORE? I'll tell you who: Grandmothers and people trapped on an ISLAND.

Bullshit.

All of the above

My staggering depression last week erased from my memory a little blurb on steroid abuse I saw on either ESPN or MLB.com. It was an interactive poll which asked the fans "who is responsible for the steroid scandal in baseball?" The options were something like (I hate that I didn't write this on the day):

A. The players who took the steroids.
B. MLB management
C. The players who knew about the steroid abuse but didn't say anything


And some fourth option I can't remember, but I can tell you what the fourth option WASN'T. It wasn't "the fans." Now, I know neither MLB nor ESPN would attack sports fans on their sites, so the absence of this option isn't surprising. However, the fans are the number one reason steroid abuse is so rampant in Major League Baseball, not to mention professional wrestling, other major sports, and the film industry (the FILM INDUSTRY??? Yeah, stupid, the film industry). Regular folk want to see the big plays, the monster homeruns, the impossible feats. The subtle intricacies of ALL popular entertainment are victims of the crowd's thirst for extraordinary experiences. No one wants to see a well placed sacrifice bunt anymore. They want to see the long ball.

I read an article somewhere about up-and-coming ballplayers in the Dominican Republic, and each of the guys interviewed confirmed that the popular consensus on making it in the big leagues is that one MUST hit homeruns. MUST. Because you will not be asked to join the majors otherwise. Sure, that's what team owners and GMs are looking for, but they're in search of power because that's what the fans want. That's the marketable commodity.

Fans are impossibly jaded and have always harbored an oppressive hero worship. The pressure on the player is this: do the impossible or go home. That effect on the players isn't just about steroids, either. Baseball professionals are ten times more muscular than they used to be even 15 years ago. And that's not all substance abuse, it's strenuous exercise routines and fitness regimens. So, in an environment when every guy in the clubhouse is the size of a barn, why wouldn't you look for alternate means to get that edge?

It may have been lost along the way, but the fans asked for this shit. The same beery dildo who calls in to sports talk shows complaining about "cheaters" like A-Rod is the same obnoxious shithead who jiggles delightedly at each homer Jeter hits. It's more "natural," he figures. Is it?

Dark days indeed

I'm pretty sure the initial panic I felt coursing through my veins after being laid off has been absorbed and diluted by my body and has resolved itself into a constant dread. It's no longer a stab, it's an ache. When this all went down almost two months ago, I was overwhelmed with the urge to fix it, to reenter the workforce come Hell or high water. The meager responses from employers have trickled down to absolutely nothing and an eerie dark silence has oozed in to my days. It all seems impossibly futile.

While talking to my beloved Mandrake, I likened it to tossing copy after copy of my resume down a well. As each sheet is swallowed by the blackness, I'm puzzled by my insistence on sending them down the well in the first place. I've spent seven years working in a place that has offered me no marketable talents. I have more than a half dozen years experience in idling. In busywork.

And one would think that the length of my stay at my now defunct position would stand as a testament to some sort of industriousness, of loyalty, but that's not how it works in New York. You're considered a fool if you stay at any one place for more than two years. The focus of the workforce here is always upward. Of course, that's assuming you're actually in the profession of your choice. Then one's focus is on the clock and the long hours remaining until happy hour.

What I'm saying is that I've painted myself into a corner. After college, I had to work at a pointless, mindless job in order to pay the bills so that I could act. But working left no time for acting, and I feel as if that ship has sailed (hell, I'm not sure if I was ever even near the dock). It's funny that the now curiously absent actors' "manager" from a few months ago and the corporate headhunter told me essentially the same thing: I'm too old and I have nothing to offer. I can't act, apparently, because I wasn't around in my twenties to build the relationships I needed to succeed because I was too busy working at a job which endowed me with absolutely no hope for a future in any other field. It's horribly perfect.

But, this is all narcissistic tripe. I'm just crying the blues into the void. I suppose I'm just glum because it was a little overcast this morning. It looks to be clearing up though.