Name dropping.

I don't even remember what the festival was, only that they closed much of downtown Salt Lake City for it. There was probably food, beer and music. Just try to have a festival without these three staples. Take one away and it's like a barstool with two legs. And what's a barstool with two legs? Either trash or an awkward sex toy.

The program director for the radio station I worked for assigned me to go down and introduce Colin Hay on one of the stages. Colin Hay, from Men At Work. Okay, sure. So I get up on stage and start rattling off that bullshit that you've come to expect from Generic Guy Rattling Shit Off Before The Show. I plow through the sponsor names, events people could expect later on in the festival, and finally get to the end. Finally. You know how you hate waiting for Generic Guy to get done with his laundry list of shit? Generic Guy wants to get out from under the gaze of a few hundred people wishing him off the stage with the power of pure disinterest even more.

"And now ladies and gentleman, please welcome Colin Hay from Men At Work!"

People begin to applaud, I stuff the mic back into the stand and exit the stage hastily. I didn't have much interest in sticking around for the music so I started making my way along the edge of the crowd, figuring to grab a beer and a kabob before going home.

"Thank you," Mr. Hay's voice echoes behind me. "Thank you very much. Though, one of these days I really may as well just change my last name to 'From Men At Work.'"

Soft chuckle from the crowd. I glanced over my shoulder. Was that Colin Ray throwing a mild glare in my direction?

I think it WAS.

I blinked and turned away, slightly annoyed. I didn't much dwell on it though, but really, dude. From Men At Work is the only thing that keeps people from confusing you with country artist Collin Raye. I know, I know, you'd like your work to stand on its own. Like Kelly Clarkson wants to distance herself from American Idol and Daniel Powter wishes people would stop pointing and laughing. I get it.

But you're gonna take this out on me? Yeah, blow me.

Kabob was really good though. Mmm. Jumbo shrimp and okra. Mormons can make a motherfucking kabob.

Oh, fuck it.

I've been alternating between trying to get work done and trying to expunge some nasty seasonal/holiday bullshit here on this blog all day.

Shit ain't coming out of my head. Or, it forms in my head and gets jammed right about mid-elbow instead of coming out of my fingers.

Or, it'll make it out of my fingers and end up looking like something a third grader would write. Normally I just let the inner voice ramble, but today the inner voice reminds me of a retarded talking monkey. "Thing in head hurt. Make sad. :( No want thing in head! Fingers taste salty. :D"

So long story short, next week is the anniversary for a really crappy event and I'm tired of being upset over it and. Okay and I'm tired of people thinking I'm upset about it for one reason when really ... it was a really bad breakup. Happened a few years ago. It's not the girl, I could care less about the girl. She had a daughter. It's the daughter I miss. No, it's how the daughter made me feel. I felt like a dad. Briefly.

Does that ever heal? Please tell me it does. Or please give me a succinct way for other people to understand this. I almost punched a friend last week for telling me to "just get over it." And people get all judgmental when you hit girls. Even if they are bigger than you.

I need a vacation. And to move somewhere where they just don't have January.

And you are?

Really, did you know Brittany Murphy's name before she died? I'm not being snarky, I'm really asking.

I saw her name starting to trend on Twitter on Sunday. Then I saw the story come out. I squinted at her photo and faintly recognized her as the chick who cheated on Eminem in 8 Mile. I've never seen Clueless, which was apparently her other big movie. I'd never absorbed her name, even for a moment.

So, three days later, people are still mildly obsessing over her. I mean it doesn't bother me or anything, I'm just confused. If it's simply a matter of her having been a lot more popular than I realized, okay, no big. But, and maybe I'm overthinking it, just seems that people are increasingly growing addicted to grieving.

I think it started right after 9/11. Remember how wherever you went, you could look into a stranger's eyes and know beyond all certainty that you were thinking about the same thing? I wonder if people aren't desperate to reclaim that bond. So we chase it. We pull together under Heath Ledger's passing, and then Michael Jackson's. And we grasp at straws with product hawkers such as Billy Mays, and the deaths of a blip-on-the-radar actresses.

I mean, if you're really sad she's gone, nevermind, this doesn't apply to you. I'm just trying to sort things out. I've never been certain of how to deal with it when a friend or family member has died, so I watch others for clues. And right now quite frankly you bastards are confusing me.

Is there a Grieving For Dummies?

Seriously. We could make millions.

Letter.

Dear All My East Coast Friends Who Have Spent The Last Decade Smugly Informing Me How Much Better Your Pizza Is Than This "West Coast Cardboard Shit" We Have Out Here:

Hey, how's that taste under 19 feet of snow?

I Beck your pardon.

People. He's just a former morning zoo radio DJ. Calm down.

Just saw that Time magazine has Glenn Beck listed as a Person Of The Year for 2009. I mean, I can't really argue with that. Dude got parodied on South Park. At that point, you're a cornerstone of society.

But. I mean. Seriously, he used to just be a wacky radio morning show host. He did mornings with a friend of mine somewhere on the East coast ages ago, I forget what city. He slowly worked his way into talk radio, then filling in on major talk radio networks, and then suddenly his adorable Monchichi face started popping up on TV. All because he realized that if he says certain extreme words in a certain extreme order, he makes money.

That's it, guys. Okay? S'all he is. Entertainment. If he really preached what he thought was important and dear to him, the fact that he's Mormon wouldn't be a lesser known trivia point. I love me some Mormons dearly, but we all know that they're viewed in a suspicious "I don't know much about them so I'm going to assume they're scary in the same way that Free Masons and Google Wave frightens me" light.

He recognizes this. He may not keep it a secret, but sure is strange that he's fairly skittish about embracing the title.

That is, unless he knows it's a business too. And it's all just an act. And that's fine! That's FINE. Just take a breath and recognize it. Then go about your life. That's what he does.

After he checks his phone for his daily "srsly, i lrnt teh hard way, lol" text from Mitt Romney.

Nom.

Who was I discussing beef with last night? I only had a few drinks, I shouldn't be blacking that part out. Or maybe my passion for beef is as such that it completely eclipsed the concept that there was anyone even near me.

Fuck me I love beef. We were discussing beef alternatives, such as ground turkey, sawdust, and letting one's soul slowly and unhappily fade into oblivion. We were talking about getting older and how we have to start watching what we eat a bit more.

Girlfriend Kate and I were on the phone the other night. She's on a massive and admirable "eat things that not only haven't been tortured for their entire if not brief lives, but also might be somewhat good for you" kick. Thing is, her curve of 'eating better' is tons different than mine. For much of the past decade I've shoveled nothing but fast food, coffee, nicotine and various illegal chemicals into my face. Switching to a diet of tacos that I made myself out of semi-fresh ingredients was a major step up. Actually. I'm not convinced that white bread soaked in Jagermeister wouldn't have been a marked improvement. Anyway it's really fun to listen to her explore the world of less murdery foods, and since we live far apart I can still ramp my own health up at my own pace. Such as switching from Jack Daniels to Gentleman Jack.

My baby steps have baby steps of their own.

Once an ex made vegan food for me. She insisted I'd love it. No one ever prepares vegan food and says "You know, you MAY like this. Hard to say." Anyway I didn't love it and we broke up. I mean not because of that, but. Chronologically the statement is sound.

Also? This was the worst topic to write about when I'm stuck at work and starving. Don't get to go home for another hour, hour and a half, either. Balls.

Maybe I'll hit up the vending machine. See if there are any free-range Doritos left.

Dear Jesus.

I know you and I have recently agreed to be uncertain that the other exists. So, this is a little awkward, but. I need this.

Can you make sure no one spoils the season finale of Dexter season 4 for me until I get to watch it on DVD?

Do me that solid and I'll, ah. Uh. Well let's cross that bridge when we come to it.

Er, I mean we'll figure it out later. Sorry. Forgot that that word brings back memories.

K. Thanks.