Fond of rumpots, crackpots, and how are you, Mr. Wilson?

How long does it take for wrinkles to show up? I ask because there's a groove between my eyebrows that was emphatically not there yesterday. It's not a bad thing, mind, but I must admit being alarmed at the possibility of going to sleep looking as I do and then waking up as a Shar Pei-Abe Vigoda mix. There's also the possibility that this is the result of a graphically misplaced blind zit low on my forehead (and allow me a moment to state that a universe that allows one to have zits and wrinkles simultaneously is TOTALLY FNORKING UNFAIR).

Also, my dad called me from a two-hour airline delay in Denver, and told me that a few weeks ago his architectural firm was on the short list for a big hospital project bid that they later lost—to be located in Libya. I shall carry with me this reminder that not all job application failures are bad things.

Earlier tonight, figmentj and I watched One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (which my dad had just berated me for never having seen), and now are settling in for Empire Records, which may not be the Alpha and Omega of cinema—not while the Pauly Shore filmography is still in accessible formats—but might by the Alpha and Omicron. She asked me to mention that she thinks my wrinkle is sexy.