Just returned from an amazing birthday weekend in my hometown of Atlanta.

I did this: (1) Drink (2) give multiple high-fives to old friends (including Brent Hinds from Mastodon!!!) (3) eat

I did NOT do this: Sleep.

Now, I am 35 years old. Emphasis on the "old"

I went fishing with some friends last weekend.

Came home with a 36-inch striped bass (twss), and this joke:

Q: What's green and has wheels?
A: Grass... I was kidding about the wheels.

Just got word: I pick a jury Monday for trial.

Time to decide if I want to be one of those quirky lawyers who dress like a cowboy.

As someone who grew up in Atlanta, I'm thinking I should pay homage to my southern roots in seersucker.

File this one under stoked/terrified.

I'm a bad tagger.

I'm banned for tagging for three months. BANNED! Like 2LiveCrew. BANNED! Like The Dead Kennedys. BANNED! Like George Carlin (RIP).

But apparently not as cool.

The rule is: Tagging should not be obvious or too common to be distinguishing (e.g. feet ... most people have those, or "beautiful" ... most ladies here are). Fair enough. Then the rules get kind of persnickety (yeah, I said persnickety, so what???), and point out that full sentences and punctuation are unnecessary. And that "silliness" and "inside jokes" are

So, my tags are either (1) totally uncreative (2) grammatically or syntactically unsavory, (3) silly, or (4) make no sense.

I thought my tag "ass that could start a war" was quite complimentary, not a sentence (it's a fragment); not really silly, and, while it might be a stretch, was seductively evocative.

Nopeski.

I'm not a cool guy anymore ... as if I ever was before.**

**(Who said that? Bonus points if you don't google it).

Dear Suicide Girl World:

I've been gone for a while, but I have missed you, your wry humor, your hot nakedness, your electronic flirtations.


And I asked myself, last night, as I pried open the musty mattress in the couch of the lobby of my office (yes, OFFICE) to sleep in my suit slacks, Oxford shirt and -- I shit you not -- LOAFERS, for a mere two hours before waking up -- the foul sound of my iPhone alarm at 4 a.m. -- to finish motion papers to deliver to a merciless judge at 9:30 in Jamaica Queens, I asked: Why did I become a lawyer?

I shoulda done like my contemporaries and pursued a graphic design degree. Or computer science. A teacher! I shoulda stayed a journalist.

I was a bartender once. I had FUN!

I used to think I wanted to be an intellectual.

But now, I just want to rock.

That. Is. All.

Tonight's gonna be a good night::

Band practice followed by punk rock/heavy metal karaoke with a live band.

DON'T MAKE ME SING! YOU'RE NOT GONNA MAKE ME SING, ARE YA?

and please:

DON'T MAKE ME DANCE!

The Turkish and Russian Bathhouse on 10th Street, where I met a friend last night, is a lot less gay than it sounds...

Well, we did strip down to our underwear, hang out in dark rooms, get really, really sweaty, and let some Turkish guy give us a "Palatsa" (spelled phonetically), which is basically a massage that involves beating you about your torso with sticks.

So maybe it's actually GAYER than it sounds. Hmmmmm...

In any event, you sweat your fucking face off. I left feeling dazed and, I shit you not, woke up two pounds lighter.

As if I'm NOT going back...

Jonathan Lethem's "Chronic City" is a thing of beauty.