I fear I’ve left this blog alone so long that it’s starting to grow mold.

Have no fear, I’m still alive and I have no intentions of abandonment. I’m just running on fumes right now. And I’m so busy.

Work is really killing me, to the point where I don’t even check the blog during the day. And when I get home at night, the last thing I want to do is sit in front of my computer.

Truth be told, I might have made the time to sit down and write something if I, in fact, had something about which to write. But even though I’ve done many things lately, I find myself with nothing interesting to say.

Trust that I will answer all of the questions and resume my regular posting just as soon as I get my groove back.

In honor of that which is currently eluding me, here are 20 Things You Didn’t Know About… Sleep.

[Discover, via Fark]

I just saw the most ridiculous commercial—This drawing of Ben Franklin, animated only by a moving mouth (à la Monty Python), comes on and says something like “Hi, I’m Benjamin Franklin, inventor of many things including the lightening rod, bifocals, and the stove.”

Whatever, with all of the Benergy going around these days, I’ve begun ignoring things like this.

Except then he says, “But I’m not here to talk about myself, I’m here to talk about teenage pregnancy.”

What?!

He goes on with something like “Think it won’t happen to you?” and then gives some statistics.

I found the whole thing pretty amusing, if not a bit bizarre, but it was the last line of the commercial that had me laughing out loud: “So before you have sex, think of me, Benjamin Franklin.”

Dude, that was not cool!

And isn’t it kind of funny that they used Ben Franklin for this at all, given the rumors of his own sexual escapades?

Update: You can view the commerical here: A Message from Benjamin Franklin [teenpregnancy.org]

Dear imbecile who thought it was a good idea to BLAST music in the parking lot of my building at 7:00 AM this morning,

Consider yourself lucky to be alive, because I was very near the brink of pushing the air conditioner out of my window and onto your head. That guy who finally came out and asked you to turn off the music? You owe him your life.

Now, I love me some J. Geils Band as much as the next girl, but what makes you think that ANYONE wants to hear it at 7:00 AM?!! Some of us are still recovering from a rather hellish weekend, and could really have used the extra minutes of precious sleep that you so selfishly denied us.

My bedroom, as well as the bedrooms of at least seven other apartments overlook that little parking lot. And generally, I have accepted the annoyances that come with it. I don’t complain about the beeping when the back gate is opened. Or the car doors slamming. Or the trash truck emptying the dumpsters at 2:00 AM.

Okay, so I did once grumble about the dude playing his bongos in the alley at 8:00 AM on a Sunday. But even he didn’t piss me off as much as you did.

Now obviously, you were here to perform some sort of maintenance in the building, and I understand wanting to hear a little music while you work… but for Christ’s sake, get a fucking iPod already. Or even just a little boom box. Don’t open up all the doors on your van and crank the radio up to the max!

If you EVER do this again, I will hunt you down to the ends of the earth. I will not kill you, but you will be begging for death before I am done.

I will find out where you live. I will secretly install tiny speakers all over your bedroom. In the walls, in the floor. You won’t see them, but they will be there. And I will rig them to play that annoying Barney song every night, over and over and over again, gradually increasing in volume, until you eventually go insane.

I love you, you love me, we’re a happy family…

You think I’m kidding, don’t you? Well ask yourself, when was the last time you heard bongos coming from the alley?

So… I stayed up half the night baking and decorating a birthday cake for my mom. I’m not 100% satisfied with it (the writing looks like ass, I can do better), but I think it’s okay.

And frankly, I can’t afford to invest any more time into a cake that somehow has to make it all the way to the end of the R6 without being destroyed. It’s already had a near death experience: I tripped while moving it the four feet from the counter to the fridge. Lost my slipper, but saved the cake.

Anyway, I hope the damn thing still looks decent when I wake up tomorrow, though I doubt there will be much difference between my bleary-eyed vision now and four hours from now.

You arrive at work, and after searching in vain for your ID to swipe it through the card reader and open the door, you remember the last time you saw it: this morning, sitting on your desk at home.

Cursing yourself, you trudge down to the public entrance and get on with your day.

About an hour later, on your way to get coffee, you quickly check your appearance in the mirror (you can never really be sure that you remembered to screw your head on properly, and you wouldn’t want to scare anyone).

And there’s your ID. Around your neck. And you have absolutely no idea how it got there.

I’m not against the police; I’m just afraid of them. –Alfred Hitchcock

Larakin recently wrote about a harrowing experience he had just before Christmas. He witnessed an accident, barely avoiding it himself, and stayed to help out and answer questions. And in spite of his good deeds, he got treated like ass by the cop. That reminded me of a story of my own.

I had an accident 4 or 5 years ago on one of Philly’s busiest highways, the always delightful Schuylkill Expressway (I think just before the Zoo exit, for those that know it).

It was during rush hour, and if that wasn’t bad enough, the Sixers were in the playoffs that night.

It was really just a fender bender, but still very scary for me because of all the traffic. Not to mention that it was my first (and only) accident, and I was all alone. I was only a couple miles from my destination, but it might as well have been hundreds.

Ironically, the traffic may have actually been a good thing, as it caused me to only be moving at 25 mph when it happened. On the other hand, had there not been so much traffic, I probably would have reached my destination before I fell asleep…. I guess I’ll never know.

Anyway, the point of this story is that the cop was a complete and total jerkoff.

As I was fumbling for the vehicle registration, he used the opportunity to berate me for not knowing precisely where it was.

I said “I’m sorry, this is my father’s car, and I’ve been away at college so I haven’t driven it recently.”

His response? “You should never drive a car without knowing where the registration is.”

Which, okay, I guess he was right, but give me a break!! After all, I knew it was in the glove compartment somewhere! He kept harping on it until I finally gave him the registration.

Then, in an even nastier tone, he asked “Why did you tell me this was your father’s car?”

Bewildered, I looked at him, and stammered “Because… it… is.”

He then shoved the registration into my face and yelled “But it says your name right here!”

I looked at it and realized he was referring, not to my name, but to my mother’s, which also happened to be on the registration. She’s Kathleen and I’m Katharine. Yes, they are similar. No, they are not the same. (Something the post office could never figure out either, I might add). Get some goddamn reading glasses, people.

So I explained this to him and he just sort of muttered “Oh, okay.” Then he went back to lecturing me about the registration.

It would have been different if he just pointed to the registration and said “I thought you said this wasn’t your car, but isn’t this your name?” But he yelled at me and treated me like I was a liar.

I was visibly scared, and obviously emotional, and that cop just used me to get himself off on some power trip. He was a total asshole. I really should have complained about it.

On the other hand, the police were pretty good to me that time I got trapped in my bathroom…. But I’ll leave that story for another time.

Tonight I should really be doing laundry or varnishing a cabinet or something, but I will instead be watching No Direction Home: Bob Dylan with Edo and a friend. I’m really looking forward to it, in spite of only catching two hours of sleep last night.

The documentary covers what are probably the most important years of Dylan’s career (1961-1966), and will include a lot of previously unseen footage from that era, as well as recent interviews done exclusively for this project. Directed by Martin Scorsese, it has received wide critical acclaim from both fans and casual observers alike.

Bob Dylan is more than just a musical icon. He’s one of the most important artists of the 20th century, and whether you love or hate him, his legacy is a piece of our cultural heritage. No Direction Home is premiering on PBS tonight and concluding tomorrow (it’s a two-parter), so I encourage all of you to watch.

You got nothing to lose.

Five shots of espresso, and I still can’t keep my eyes open. Cursed insomnia!

You come around the corner from the bathroom, and upon finding yourself face to face with the full-length mirror, think for a split second that someone else is in your apartment.

Before leaving the office for a coffee run, you think to yourself “I’ll just grab enough money from my wallet to pay for the latte… and then you realize you’ve taken out $160 and left the $4 in your wallet.

You begin talking to an employee who’s in another room, and as you walk to that room (still talking), you end up giving instructions standing over the shoulder of the wrong person who is very confused.

UPDATE: You need to drop off some paperwork to another department whose office is on your way to work. You remember this while still at home. As you are walking to work, you call and tell them that you need to do this. And then you walk right past the building and forget to drop off the paperwork.

As some of you may already know, my apartment building is next to a small cathedral. When we moved in I thought, “Gee, this is nice. What a pretty church.” Then about 3 months later, I started hearing bells ring from time to time and I thought “Ooh, pretty bells.” Well, it wasn’t long before my warm fuzzy feelings turned to thoughts of destruction and mayhem….

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