The only thing I hate more than blogger is accounting.

If I could have lunch with any three people, I’d have to say…Jon Stewart, Nando Parrado and John Kenneth Galbraith.

Backup lunch: Jack Black, Bob Mould and my grandmother who died before I was born.

This is sad. The Plaza hotel in New York is being turned into condos. I’m glad we got to stay there a few years ago.

Cheney offspring bursts from Bush’s chest

Just had lunch with a former colleague. We worked together at Delano, a failed (well, purchased really, but calling it failed is hardly misleading) software company, for about a year and a half. We’ve probably gotten together every few months since we left for other jobs, but it’s odd…we still end up talking about Delano most times. It was quite an experience; certainly the most intense 21 months of my life, and included some the most amazing highs and crushing lows of my working life.

Maybe I’ll rant about it one day.

The countdown for the extinction of CDs is about to begin

• Regina Spektor . “Us”
• Petra Haden . “I Can See For Miles”
• Billy Squier vs. Fischerspooner . “Everybody Wants You To Emerge”
• Guided By Voices . “Gonna Never Have To Die”
• Fun Lovin’ Criminals . “The View Belongs To Everyone”
• Gentleman Reg . “It’s Not Safe”
• Flogging Molly . “Light Of A Fading Star”
• The Walkmen . “We’ve Been Had”
• Uncut . “Understanding The New Violence”
• Tindersticks . “4:48 Psychosis”
• Temple Of The Dog (!) . “Wooden Jesus”
• Starsailor . “Silence Is Easy”
• Mody & Gwen Stefani . “South Side”
• Mark Lanegan . “Borracho”

Now this is more like it. Warm-ish, springy weather. Daylight savings, as much as it interferes with my sleep, makes the day longer. Thankfully there was nothing left of the nasty rain/snowstorm on Sunday as it washed itself away, so practically all snowdrifts are now gone and a few trees are actually making a stab at budding.

Favourite time of year. If only I were back in Nova Scotia, I’d be standing outside my dad’s sugar house right now, letting maple steam fall all over me. Trust me, that’s a pleasure that one simply can’t explain, only experience.

What brand of psychosis is it that makes some people think it’s ok to play a radio in their cubicle?

My wife has finally lost her nut. She’s drinking Perrier from a champagne flute.