Hey there! It’s Wednesday. Today is a garbage day in my neck of the woods. Yesterday was alright, and what I like about Elton John is that he’s gay, but he doesn’t act gay. But honestly, he’s just a good musician.
I’ve done some good shit over the decades, and the bathroom has been kind to me. People almost paid more to see my shit than to read my novel. I’ve written adult fiction, but some might consider it elderly fiction. Last night, I asked my wife if I could lick her feet. She gave me a weird stare. This is my last journal before taking some time away from the random journal.
I feel bad for the Toronto Blue Jays. They might win the odd game, but I feel bad. I feel bad for Boomer and Gio. You know, sports. 142 years ago, I never returned a book to the bad library. I was 8 years old, but it was a long time ago. A very long time ago. I’ve started listening to Heartbreak History.
My top songs are from Heartbreak on WRICH Radio online.
Top 5 Songs for April 22nd, 2026:
- “Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture” (Live) by HM Royal Marines ‧ 2012.
- “Nautical Disaster” (Live) by The Tragically Hip ‧ 1996.
- “After Midnight” (Live) – Steve Winwood, Eric Clapton ‧ 2013.
- “The Love Boat Theme” by Jack Jones ‧ 1977.
- “Follow Me” by Jam and Spoon ‧ 1991.
I imagine myself in a dim, forbidden, bad library, music echoing softly through tall shelves while the walls are lined with stolen art, pieces that feel more alive than anything carefully preserved at home. In my basement, original art seems quiet, almost too proper, but here everything has an edge, a story that hums beneath the surface. The paintings feel closer, less distant, as if they belong to the moment rather than history. Somehow, in this imagined place, the art feels better — freer — almost like it was meant to be seen this way.
I’m not sure who the bird-brained person was who did this art. Bird brains especially interest me. I actually like birds. I have a Spotify episode on birds. The Rich Experience was one of the last acts before retirement.
The woman with the bagel wasn’t too smart. At 103, Ms. Kline had very little patience left for anything that didn’t cooperate, least of all breakfast. The bagel was too hard, then too soft, then somehow wrong in a way she couldn’t name, and after muttering at it for a full minute, she marched to the window and hurled it into the yard. “Let the birds deal with it,” she snapped, watching it land in the grass below.
They did.
At first it was just one, then three, then a sudden, churning flock that seemed to rise out of nowhere, wings beating and voices sharp. Ms. Kline leaned closer to the glass, squinting, lips curled in a stubborn little sneer as if she’d personally offended them. “Go on, then,” she said. “It’s yours.”
The birds didn’t stop at the bagel.
In a rush of feathers and fury, they surged toward the window, tapping, pecking, flapping against the glass with startling force. Ms. Kline jerked back, startled but not entirely afraid, her expression shifting from irritation to something almost impressed. The kitchen filled with the frantic sound of wings against pane, a strange, noisy standoff between one stubborn woman and a flock that refused to be dismissed.
After a moment, just as suddenly as they had come, the birds scattered, leaving only a few crumbs behind and then silence.
Ms. Kline stared out at the yard, then at the empty counter behind her.
“Fine,” she muttered. “Toast tomorrow.”
I didn’t actually know Ms. Kline, but her older sister watched The Wizard of Oz with me. We saw the 1902 musical extravaganza based on the 1900 novel The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum. We watched it in the theatre.
Random Journal 
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