The other day someone got to this blog searching "Chris Cope."
I would like to think that somewhere out there women are pining for me -- wondering whatever happened to that roguish lovechild of Hugh Grant and Johnny Bravo who so captured their heart. Why, oh, why did they let him slip through their fingers? Perhaps they were not woman enough to tame his wild heart, but that doesn't mean that each night is not spent wondering and dreaming about what could have been.
Probably, though, they were looking for this guy.
I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about people I have known -- it seems to be one of my personality flaws that I am so quick to slough off acquaintances and then spend the rest of my days wondering what happened to them. Today I searched the married name of an old friend/girlfriend and turned up nothing but links to a porn star of the same name.
I smell like a Metropolis player*. Last night my wife convinced me to purchase a different brand of deodorant than the one I've been using since I was 14 years old and my new smell is playing with my head. What was wrong with my old smell?
My favorite quote of the day: "They farm-raised this big boy on Santeria and voodoo."
Although, this quote comes in as a close second: "You are going to die today -- happy birthday, you are the candle."
I am amused by one of the details in this murder story: "He then told some jokes and played the piano before returning to his house."
I sort of envision him being exceedingly charming in a Noel Coward sort of way. He'll be a smash with the lads in prison.
Smart people live in Dayton, Ohio.
Sometimes you just really want fries.
Art teachers are nothing but trouble. I'm sure Jenny is regularly having run-ins with the law, as well.
*The Metropolis are a local Division II rugby team. After matches, instead of showering or simply putting up with their post-game stench, they slather on deodorant and cologne in an attempt to hide their smell before heading to the bar.