Sitting in Starbucks getting some work done.  The problem with having a home office is that “home” and “office” are contradictory terms.  When the office feels like home, it can be hard to get work done.  When home feels like the office, you’ve officially messed up a good thing.
Anyway, I’m in here, and they’re playing a typical Starbucks blend of music from the ’60s.  Good mix, actually.  I’m always okay with hearing “Papa Don’t Take No Mess” and “Shake” back-to-back.  Last song was “Ball of Confusion.”
I dig “Ball of Confusion.”  Always have.  It’s not quite song-writing genius–I still contend Whitfield’s masterpiece is, was, and will be “Papa Was a Rolling Stone”–but it does a pretty good job of making the world sound good and messed up.  That was the plan, I figured.
But the Temps say that the only safe place is the Indian reservation.  I’ve never been on a reservation, but I must ask this–is the Indian reservation actually safe?  From what I’ve read, reservations are the original projects.
Moral of the story–even though the song is an extended piece of hyperbole, the world’s actually more jacked up than they thought.  Not a good sign.
Monday, I believe, I’ll have to write something on Obama. I’ll be damned, but it looks like he can win the Democratic nomination, at least.  It reminds me of an Eddie Murphy from “Delirious” where he talks about white people joking around and saying they’re going to vote for Jesse Jackson, then waking up the next morning and saying, “he fucking won?”
Yeah, dude might win.  And I really don’t know what to make of it.