Hey, man, is that freedom rock?

Through a 'friend of a friend that knows someone', I obtained the Time-Life Collection 10-disc set of 'Ultimate' 70s music. Starting from 1970, I've noticed that each proceeding year gets embarrassingly more schmaltzy and butt-rocky.

Currently, I’m knee-deep in the constipated bowels of 1976 music. I just finished listening to the disco anthem 'You Should Be Dancing', the Bee Gees’ breakthrough single that debuted Barry Gibb’s ‘castration set to melody’ signature sound. The combination of infectious rhythms, brassy horns, and high falsettos make me want to snort some blow, do burnouts in a 1970 Firebird, and contemplate the stagflative malaise of Detroit’s industrial sector.

If 1984 was ‘Morning in America’, 1976 can fairly be titled ‘Afternoon Butt Scratch’.

Adorable newborns, unite!

My new niece, Mae, throwing up an oh-so-cute fist of solidarity.

Although her knowledge of guerrilla warfare may not be up to snuff, I think many a revolutionary insurgent could learn a lot from her. For example- the cuddly light-yellow knit sweater that she is wearing. You're not going to win any friends wearing a red-starred beret with an AK-47 slung over your shoulder. And what about those rosey cheeks?!? If you want freedom for your people, you're going to have to lose the ski mask and the weeks-worth of scratchy stubble beneath it.

We shall... We shall... We shall overcome drool...

My, what a curious odor you've discovered

Out of the blue, I just sensed the faint aroma of cilantro. The stink of desperation, fear and potatoes normally clouds my sense of smell, so the scent of far away spices is a pleasant respite from the usual olfactory grind. I'm sitting at my desk right now with my office door and window closed, so this fleeting scent is particularly curious.

It's just about my lunch time; therefore the thought of cilantro has my stomach all a flutter with happy memories of Pho and Vietnamese sandwiches.

Seeing how my current lunch regiment consists of a bowl of cereal and yogurt, I might as well swallow a handful of thumbtacks, because anything short of a French baguette stuffed with a bounty of fresh goodness will simply not do. Maybe I should check out the 7-Eleven convenience store across the street to see if they have any pate I can stir into my bowl of Special K.