08.28.02 - 7:47 p.m.

Snerf. How does staring at a computer screen make you tired as hell? I look at that little weasely iMac for 8 hours and I'm ready to take a dirt nap. If you know what I mean. Actually, I just want to take a long real nap but I thought "dirt nap" sounded tougher. More final.... OK, I just wanted to say "dirt nap." DIRT NAP!

Computers are ruining my life. I fight with Nexis and Google for the aforementioned 8 hours, come home, eat my dinner of champions (tonight: the one, the only, the Triscuit Nacho) and hop right back on the machine of doom. As if I didn't have poor eyesight to begin with. And now there's the mysterious pain in my right hand to deal with. Kind of in the palm. Kind of a twinge. My acupressure trick works every now and then. But it's no substitute for the glorious pain-free days I had as a child. Barbies did not give me physical ailments. Subconscious mental ones, maybe, but not carpal tunnel.

This was supposed to be one of those rare, intelligent, topical entries. I was going to write about my reaction to the Rolling Stone redesign - I even bookmarked some op-ed pieces from the New York Post and USA Today for reference - but the bastard mag didn't appear in my mailbox today. So maybe tomorrow night you'll get a brief moment of insight.

Oh no, you won't. Because I'll be watching the VMA's. Like a trained seal. Even though they'll rebroadcast them to infinity times ten, I must watch them as they occur.

And tonight: the American Idol results show, expanded to one hour because...well, because it's on Fox, and what would Fox be if not a shameless trash pimp? I'm not sure how much filler I can take. And I can't even begin to predict who's getting the boot. If it were based solely on hairstyle, they'd all be out on the street.

Ah, "Jose Chung's 'From Outer Space.'" Best. Episode. Ever.