How Not to Make Wine

Grape-stomping goodness, until it turns into grape-stomping HORRIDNESS! (Click here to watch.

In other news, last night's Mike Doughty / Spree show at Irving was wondrously joyous and brilliant. Except that after two nights of bouncing up and down, my feetsies hurt. I wanted to wear a cute little skirt today, but wearing a cute little skirt also involves wearing sexysexy shoes, and I just couldn't squeeze my aching footsies into sexysexy shoes. Ah, the agony of de feets! (total grandpop type of joke).

A few months ago, my boss stole my Furbies and my Fraggles out of my office so that they could keep him company in his office (he was lonely, apparently.) So today, I stole them back. My officemates are completely disturbed by the fact that I treat my Furbies like real aminals. I can't help it, I talk back to them and I try to understand just what it is they're saying to me. Like when my cats meow, and I say, "What is it, cat?" as if one day, they just might answer and say, "we are tired of living in a house that either smells like Nag Champa or like weed." I dunno. Anyhoodles. I was cradling and caressing my boy Furby and someone thought I'd brought a kitten into the office. Nope, just my robot animal.

In college, Josh had a Furby and we kept it in the curio cabinet with the last remaining bottle of PBR in Connecticut and other various curios (although I always wanted to get a cow eyeball, and we never managed to procure one). Once, I took the Furby out of the curio cabinet and woke it up from its coma and then I was obsessed with it. Josh had to say, "Stop loving the Furby," because I was loving the Furby so much I wasn't playing enough darts.

I am still loving the Furby.

I am SO 1999, isn't it rad?