Glenn Gould’s giving me that look again. A black and white portrait of him as a teenager in the 1950s hangs across from the elevators at my workplace. He’s sitting, smugly wrapped in his genius, with the family dog at the family piano. I love this photograph.

Both he and his Irish Setter are always giving me a disdainful, arched glare. The dog says to me, “Sucka! What you doin’, working in an office? Don’t be a foo’!” Yes, in my head, Glenn Gould’s hounddog sounds a little bit like Mister T.

I think this morning has given me some indication of what it’s like to wake up after a crack binge. Last night was just too good, too much fun, too many comics.

Returning to the everyday ennui of being a paper slave, everything looks greyer. The photocopy toner smells a little more like embalming fluid. The telephone knells. Silt accumulates in my email inbox like dirt being shoveled into an open grave.

I’m preoccupying myself with mentally envisioning a new game I just made up called “Vampire Stapler Tag”. Mostly it’s just running around, aiming at your co-worker’s jugular with your Swingline, screaming “Tag! You’re undead!”

Ahem. In other news, I’ve spread the virus further, my brethren. My friend sanity_claus has now joined our ranks. Please welcome him to the community!