Dammit

Some of the guys in the governing body of Sinn Fein, otherwise known as the Ard Chomhairle, have the coolest names I've ever run across. Like Aengus O'Snodaigh and Caoimhghin O'Caolain. God, I love those names. Maybe at one of Sinn Fein's Ard Fheiseanna, or annual conferences, they can make me an honorary member and give me a cool new name.

I've decided that in the new year, I will end all of my spoken sentences with "dammit." Like "Gimme a Bud Light, dammit." Or "What time have you got, dammit?" Or "I'll see you later, dammit." Or "I love you, dammit." It adds some extra urgency necessary in this post-9/11 day and age. Dammit.

I've also decided that I liked Alicia Keys better when she sat at the piano and wore big hats, dammit.

There's a homeless guy who has been hanging out near my home for the last 10 or 12 years whom I dubbed Francis because 10 years ago he was a dead ringer for Francis Ford Coppola around the time of Apocalypse Now, with the short salt-and-pepper beard and wire-rim glasses and the baseball cap. Francis's beard is longer and grayer now, but I swear the guy dresses better than I do. Yesterday, he was wearing a nice pair of green khaki trousers with a sharp crease and cuffs, a nice brown mock-turtleneck sweater, a beautiful soft, light-brown, buttery leather jacket, and new shoes. He looks like your friendly neighborhood college professor. Sometimes I don't deposit my dog's poop bag into the dumpster where he's looking because I don't want to spoil his breakfast or lunch. Maybe homelessness is just his hobby.

Any time there's violence in Spain, it's always attributed to Basque separatists. Now, I don't know what the hell a Basque separatist is, but by golly, if a bomb blows up in Spain, it's the work of Basque separatists. Who are these Basques and why do they want to separate? Can't they all just get along?

Dammit.