This is the kind of chronic brain flatulence I’m nursing: I completely blanked on my blog login information. How long have I been doing this? Nearly five years. Next up, I’m going to forget where I live. Please don’t ask me for my phone number; there’s no chance in Hell I’ll be able to recall it.

This weekend did a number on my brain. Not for anything fun, except hanging out in a Catholic church in South City on Friday night, eating fried fish and drinking free beer. The rest of the weekend, I couldn’t motivate myself to do much of anything.  I’m not physically sick. I’m not depressed. I’m just … yeah. I can’t be bothered to find a word to describe what I am.

Making matters worse: yesterday was Casimir Pulaski Day.  Do you know what that means? It means Sufjan Stevens is sad. So all the kids in Illinois stayed home from school, and we wore butterfly wings that made us look like dumbasses, played banjos, and relived bad childhood memories. Yeah. I don’t like this holiday. For the most part I’ve loved living in Illinois, but there are two things I don’t like: always having criminals in gubernatorial office, and holidays that cancel school to celebrate someone who lived before Illinois was a state.

I’ve got two deadlines today, but I felt the need to empty what little is in my brain right here so that perhaps I can get it together to do my real work. Which reminds me, my second column, The Dive Bomber, debuted in last Friday’s “Riverfront Times”.  I researched Dive Bomber #2 last night, which might explain my brain dysfunction. At least I didn’t fear for my life last night. New edition of Throwback of the House should be up sometime today. As will an update at LiveFeed. Which reminds me, we’re still waiting to find out if we nabbed the $10,000. It should take two weeks. Gah.

And since I’m now thinking about those deadlines, I think that means the worm that lives in my brain is ready to do something about them.