if christine mcvie had a penis...

I’m not sure which even told me it was definitely time to kill myself.

There was the moment when I found myself singing Jimmy Buffett songs outside my house after I took out the garbage.

Another time was when I came home and just had to hear Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumours” in its entirety. Or maybe seconds later when I started to debate the spelling of “Rumours” vs. “Rumors” with myself.

It all went back to that moment in 2006. March 14^th or 15^th. I’m not entirely sure of the date only because I know it was after work, but sometimes I talked to her earlier, sometimes later. It always depended on when I left work. Usually it was late, but even my dumb ass left early sometimes. But the control freak in me didn’t allow it to happen often.

Tragic flaws are a bitch.

But now the moment has passed. Like it always does. I’m not trying to think of the female musicians that I’ve wanted to have sex with. It’s a long list. Most likely it contains just about every woman on MTV from 1981 until 1992. Then I woke up. Or porn started showing up on the internet.

You know, I did not watch much porn before the internet. Chris showed me a dubbed who-knows-how-many-times version of “Debbie Does Dallas” in about 1986 or 87. Right before we found out about Guns-n-Roses.

Is that when music mattered more than sex?

Hell no. It never has. And that’s because I can’t play.

Music and sex? Yeah, duh. I think the first time I realized this connection was Donna Summer. I was old enough to know better, but too young to know.

Stevie Nicks is on that list. So are Ann and Nancy Wilson. Lita Ford and Dora Persch. Amy Lavere and Wendy O. Williams. Sandy Saraya. Tiffany and Debbie Gibson. What a dream that awful Syfy movie was for people my age. It almost undid seeing the Amy Fisher porno. But what really can?

Olivia Newton John and the girl from J.Geils Band’s “Centerfold” video. But, does she really count? I don’t know if she could play bass…

I could keep going on, but it seems pointless. Someone will mention some hottie that I left out and I’ll go, yeah you’re right. So, I’ll stop now. But not before the Jim Dandy to the Rescue chick and the singer from the Divynals. I mean, you didn’t think I’d leave out the redheads? Bette Midler you say? Why not? I was young once too.

My broken Kit-Kat clock stares at me. It never worked. But I never got it fixed. I didn’t see the point in paying $5 and the cost of shipping to get something fixed “for free”. Some guarantee. And yes, this is an indictment of the Kit Kat clock folks. (Is there a hyphen? I don’t fucking know.)

I grow tired of Fleetwood Mac at about 500 words. I wonder if that is a scientific fact? If it is, I need to never listen to them while trying to type ever again.

Is morning better than night? Sexually, I do better in the morning, but I enjoy it more at night.

Whiskey dick is a blessing when you’re 25. It’s a curse when you’re 41.

My koozie was caught at a Mardi Gras parade in 2010. I was unemployed, broke and happier than I’ve been since. Well, that’s not true. There were a couple of great months in 2011. Then the levee broke.

And now I want to listen to Led Zeppelin IV.

And Jennifer Jason Leigh showing up at the door would be nice. Much nicer a little over a year ago. Because now, I’d have her in for a drink then call her a cab. I’m nothing if not a gentleman. It’s a blessing, really. Glad my granddad was a great man to my eyes. I have no idea if he really was in real life. Why? I didn’t know him well enough. Now, he’s gone. And I’ve made a saint out of him. Not that that is a terribly bad thing.

I miss my family. My friends and my ex friends.

Do they  miss me? I have my doubts. But I’m sure some of ‘em do. It’s the law of averages.

I was thinking of who would be in my wedding if it happened now.

There would be Josh and John and Ed (if he could get here from Japan). Then, I guess there would be my dad and spot No. 5 would be up for grabs. Sad and lonely and interesting. Really.

Fleetwood Mac is still surviving now. Almost 18 minutes in. I guess I can write, without a point, with Christine McVie singing. Oh yeah, she’s one of those I’d add to that list. Don’t judge me. I’m just a guy. With a penis. It’s what we do. Whether or not we admit it.