Where we're from, the birds sing a pretty song, and there's always music in the air.

I'm heading for the hills tomorrow. An unlikely man heading to unchartered place. Whose to say what I shall find there? Questions? To be sure. Mystery? Certainly. Coffee? Without a hesitation or doubt in my mind. I'm heading to the land of the eternal music bed. Where simple pleasantries take on a shrouded meaning. Where the birds fly high and swoop low. Where the sidewalk never ends and falls into the lake. Yes, folks. I'm off to forge a path unto myself. And when I arrive I'll send word. And pie. Always.

Harry, I'm gonna let you in on a little secret.

Thats it. I'm going to start attaching tiny little speakers to my sneakers. That way everyone will be forced to hear the soundtrack going round and round in my brain. Today, I was literally, lit-er-a-lly walking around my place of employment singing Moby's "Dream About Me." It's hard not to be judgmental of someone who is mumbling some message of egoism off-key. I'd be judgmental of me. To be honest, it's better than the Irish ditty, "My Grass It Grows Bonnie," which was on repeat for months. I blame the fact that I had choreographed the song into the film playing in my head. Which thankfully stopped playing a couple weeks ago when some hoodlums trashed the theater. I'm so thankful in fact that George Michael was spinning for about a week. Wake me up before you go, go. Indeed. Music in the head can be delightful. Unless you're one of those folks like myself who can't just have a song playing politely at a reasonable volume in your skull. No, not you. You have to manifest the song in some other ways. Which is precisely why I can't "play" Tommy James "Crimson and Clover" except in the confines of my own home. It just doesn't explain well to the 5-0 why you felt the need to disrobe at the bank.

Diane, I'm holding in my hands a small box of chocolate bunnies.

I've started a book. It's probably the most indulgently absurd activity I've partaken of in awhile. I say "book" because I like how it sounds. Less pretentious than a "novel" yet somehow still ridiculous enough that when you say it seriously, people have a distinct look that passes over their face. They pause for a moment, and wonder what on Earth you could possibly have to say that would fill a book. Not that I've told anyone yet. But I've had that look on my face so I expect I'll get it too. I can say with almost one percent accuracy that "it" will never become a "book," but what an entirely optimistic gesture. I'd be happy with a short story, but even then, I'll say its a short story destined for bigger things. One of my favorite parts of the book is the soundtrack I'm creating for it. Yes. There will be a soundtrack. Screw movies. I want a soundtrack. I'm thinking of just writing the soundtrack right into the book. I've read books where they talk about the music being played as the characters go about their lives. I don't think I'll have it playing so much in the background, as I'll have the characters talking about the music they'd have playing in their lives were a movie. Or the music playing in their heads. Yes. That is how it will be done. One of my other favorite parts of the book is that I get to change the characters names all the time. And I have. Its one of the main male characters thats giving me the most difficulty. I'm tempted to go with John Smith and be done with it. Hmm. John Smith.

The End

I fear that the blackberry green tea frappucino may be the end of me. I've had an unhealthy need for caffeine for many years. Longer than I care to consider. I fear though, much like the spazed-out elephant in the middle of the table, I've gone too far for too little and now may not be able to turn back. Take this morning for instance. I was standing at the tall circular Starbucks table waiting area, with the rest of the junkies, staring off into space. The woman puts up a venti latte. I turn my blank stare to her. She looks at me questioningly. I say, "Venti SKIM VANILLA latte?" And she sadly shakes her head and points to the woman who apparently took my fix. The worker clearly expected me to cut my loses and take the bastard beverage. I stand fast and await correction. Which eventually arrives before I slip in the territory of criminal action. The drink soothes me slightly. At least enough to get through security at the airport. And then I see it. Another Starbucks. I figure to be safe I should procure a frappucino. And so, like so many times before, I settle upon the gorgeous greens and purples of the blackberry green tea splendor. When and if I arrive at the gates of heaven, and I hear the low beat of percussion and jazz, and feel the cushion of cloud beneath my calloused feet, I'll peer inside and spy a cup of chamomile tea, and then I'll turn sadly away, where satan's golf cart will be waiting, and as I climb in, defeated, he'll pat me on the shoulder and hand me a red bull frappucino.

I just spent a phenomenal two days at the NPPA 60th Anniversary Summit in Tampa. I'm really concentrating on not getting intimidated by some of the ridiculously awesome packages I saw. Instead, I'm questioning why I don't see them on a daily basis. Why is it when I turn on my television, I see CNN on a loop. A short loop. A loop where if you watch for more than 15 minutes, you'll slowly feel yourself experiencing an irrational pull towards Home Depot so that you can procure the latest in duct tape advances, and on your way home stop at GNC, because as an American, you're too fat. And thus you're going to die. And not a pretty death either. But a slow, torturous one, because CNN told you better and you ignored them. Go get some ice cream.