Dealing with the snow and cold weather has brought up something I never had a problem with in Houston — dry skin. I’m going through moisturizer at an alarming rate. People here call it ”Lowsh” (I’m spelling that phonetically). At first I thought I was having a poison ivy relapse from some garment that had escaped my wrath of deep cleaning. Now I know how Itchy and Scratchy must feel.
It is interesting to note that I have been on this project for about as long as the production of the two ”Matrix” sequels has been going on. We will also finish up around the same time. I bought two sunglasses for $15 a piece off a website that specializes in movie replica-ware. They should show up in the mail over the next couple of days and I will of course publish my findings. My additional replica-ware inquiry has been aimed at the folks from AbbyShot.com. They make a “Lobby Reloaded” trenchcoat that has me foaming at the mouth. OktoberNight tells me it looks a lot like something a priest would wear. I initially saw a resemblence, but upon research of previous OktoberNight clothing opinions, I found another instance from 2001 when a black shirt I own with a high collar was described as priest-like. ((Black + High Collar) != Priest). I’m going for second opinions so feel free to send them in. Notice there is no white little square thing in the middle of the collar. If someone knows what that’s called, you win a prize. Don’t look at me for the answer — I was raised Baptist as a result of the bible-thumping neighbors offering to take my sister and I to their church on Sundays. The parents got a free break from us as a result. The church benefitted, too. The money intended for the offering was instead spent on snacks and drinks at the conveniently located vending machines in the back lobby. We’d munch out sitting on these nice padded benches patiently waiting for noon to roll around so we could go back home and terrorize once again. Ah. Good times.
I’m going to hell for sure now that I’ve documented my sins. Speaking of sins, I am going to New Orleans again, only this time I won’t be hobbled by severely sprained ankles. My mom, God love her, is staying home. This is a solo effort. I will only be in town for the weekend, but I’ll be sure to squeeze five days of debauchery into two. It’ll be just like I’m back in college, only with a clear complexion and a credit card. Ah. Good times.
