Whacked out weirdo and a lovebug junkie.

Sometimes I suck at this thing. Sorry kids.

Anyway, I'm working from home today, until the chest cold my body has been incubating overwhelms me and I fall asleep under the crushing weight of a couple of cats.

But there's been plenty going on in the world of Sheena.

I hit the duty-free pretty hard in the Zuerich Flughafen. I'm pretty sure the people at the Xray machines thought I was some kind of lush. But, I mean, if you've got the francs and the time, why not pick up a bottle of Pimm's (and, um, some other things)? Exactly.

I, like the Soxaholix, have a hard-on (metaphorically speaking, that is) for the 2006 Red Sox. And I've ratcheted up the intensity thanks to fancy cable. I don't want to hear about how I'm not supposed to be this insane in April. This is how I live my life, people. 160 games a year.

Saw The Inside Man. It rocked.

I finished the new John Irving novel, Until I Find You. Yes, it was completely panned by most reviewers, and has elicited a hearty "eh" from a bunch of devotees, but I liked it. My main gripes were stylistic. For instance, he uses a lot of parenthetical asides and qualifications, as well as rather pedestrian foreshadowing, which made for a rather irritating omniscient third person narration. This might have something to do with the fact that the novel started out in the first person, but he felt it was too personal, so switched it to third. I think maybe he couldn't relinquish the subjectivity of the first person. This distracted me frequently. I did, however, like the story and its pacing and trajectory. I loved the detailed elements of both the North Sea ports and the tattoo culture. Irving's always been really good at this. Made me want to travel around the North Sea AND get a tattoo. Any thoughts on how I should get inked? I'm thinking a profile line drawing of James Joyce. Anyway, it was a great story, and it's hard for me to understand why he wasn't more exacting in his style, though towards the end I got the idea that the style was meant to mirror Jack's way of telling his life story to his shrink (or rather, how she tells him not to tell it). Perhaps this is how Iriving would tell it to HIS shrink, you know? Just a thought... in which case, the style isn't ponderous and lame so much as brilliant. Though, that may be a stretch. I'm no Michiko, after all.

Sunday, I return to the pitch with the Castle Greyskull FC, after a two-week Swiss hiatus. Providing I don't cough up my pleura, it should be a good time.

Let us all say a Novena (or equivalent) for enough a of a shitstorm to bring down the Forces of Darkness. As Claire said, it seems that our Jackass-in-Chief has to kill someone and drink his/her blood in the Oval Office in order to get people pissed enough to, you know, scold him/censure him/impeach him.

On that note, I'm going to go mainline some vitamin C. Tonight it's Sox v. Orioles and I've got to build up the strength to yell at the television.

If you get bored today, you should read about toasters.