Diagnosis: crazy

As most of you surely don't know, the majority of one of my office walls is currently covered by a whole bunch of band press photos that we cleared out of a filing cabinet a while ago. Mostly, it's a tepid collection of mid-level Canadian talent, and the record stops at 2001, presumably when everyone suddenly realized that computers could be used for more than just doing your taxes and filing recipes.

But amongst the Pursuits of Happiness, the Veals and the Emm Gryners was this guy, Robert Armstrong Nelson. I guess he's a street performer (fuck, I hope he's a street performer), and I remember getting a real kick out of this photo when I found it, but since then it's really started to haunt me. Seriously, Robert Armstrong Nelson, what's up? What's your deal? Something must have driven you to such an end—what visions, what epiphanies, what screaming internal voice caused you to give up your job as an accountant for Strathcona County's Public Works (presumably) and dedicate your life to embarrassing yourself for pocket change? And couldn't you have just been a clown instead?

I wonder what he's doing now. Anyhow, I should probably take him down off the wall one of these days. He's kind of makes me want to cry.

So yeah, that's it. Carry on.

Oh, bonus medical update: on the spinal front, no news except for the fact that MRIs are crazy, crazy machines; in regards to my eyes, I'm apparently developing glaucoma. Neat. But that's treatable, so, you know... rad.

BYE!