So, for the past couple days, I've had none of The Juice. Now, it appears, I do have some of The Juice. It may not prove to be much of The Juice, but it is enough Juice to get all Juicy and Juice out an entry.

Good morning. I like coffee.

So, right. I'm not exactly bursting, but, as I haven't updated in a few days, I do have some stuff I need to share to get us all caught up. It may be a lot, so I just have to tell you now that if you're a big fan of letters and words and perhaps long collections of text, you will be most pleased.

The rest of you are, of course, bastards.

New readers might as well get used to that word. Also, just for the record, I am terrible about responding to email, especially the ones that begin "I'm not crazy, but..." Those are no doubt from the craziest of all. I also suck at returning phone calls, so don't take it personally.

Even if you have a short attention span, you might want to stick around. This episode covers various topics of interest to discriminating people such as yourselves. Possible contents include: The mafia, high school sex, dreams, cross country driving and much much more.

Also, there is not a single mention of Spiderman. Except for that.

So, just last night, Sally and I finished our long and epic struggle to finish the DVD of the second season of the Sopranos. Great show, brilliant stuff, et cetera. Too much Sopranos, however, affects me in curious ways.

First of all, for those of you who have not already scrolled down to find the sex, for a few days after I watch me some Sopranos, everyone I see is in the mafia. Those hot Russian chicks who live in my building? Mafia girlfriends. The Italian bar owners putting up a sign outside their bar that advertises 'All you can eat Fish Fry Friday'? Fucking mafia. My mom? Oh, bigtime mafia.

I'm basically walking around terrified that I'm going to be a smart ass to the wrong person and be shot in the foot.

Also, on a personal level, I hate almost every character on that show, except for maybe the kids. I feel like all of them are profoundly stupid for not running away from one another as fast as they possibly can. I know that the theme of this series is an exploration of the worst facets of human nature, but, God, they do it almost too well.

Pussy should have just fled to Arizona. Adrianna typifies the paragon of stupid girlfriends. And, I haven't seen anything past season two yet, but I know enough to know that Dr. Malfi should have gotten out when she had the chance.

The casting is incredible, too. I think my favorite looking mafioso is Silvio:

If someone told me that this man was not a human, I would believe them. He looks like MafiaBot3000. I think that he was, in fact, specially created for this show, and will be made available for light household duty when the series ends.

So.

As for my move: It was a good thing I didn't write on Sunday. I think that if I had written that day, and I had one of those little iMood things, I would have had to set it to " :-( " or pehaps "sucky." Man, just packing up some of my stuff threw me into an unbelievable melancholic funk. My entry would have been an angsty tale of woe, punctuated by self pity and ill considered (though clever) poetry about the larger implications of stuffing crap into boxes.

I'm definitely driving. I got my third sign that I should take Route 66. It came when I was walking down the street, and a piece of paper flew up in the wind and stuck to my chest that read 'Bill, take Route 66.'

Well, actually, it just came in the form of a tv show that I wacthed Sunday night that profiled a travel store. But, man. I really wanted that piece of paper to come flying at me.

Damn this non dramatic life.

I tried to work out a driving plan that would involve a crazy road trip with this hot sexy bitch, Christy, and Jonny Boy, but, alas, despite a few promising starts, it doesn't look like it'll happen. It's too bad, too, because the trip held the promise of kinky hotel sex. It looks like I'll be driving my mom's minivan with my youngest brother, which is just about as far from hot, sexy, hotel pillowfights as one can get.

Of course, if you're somewhere along the route of the FadeIn America Tour '02, just go ahead and rent a room, let me know, and we'll see if I can't drop off some FadeLove.

And now...

Last week, I had the pleasure to be on the periphery of some real life drama that would have been rejected as a plot for a bad episode of 'Boston Public.'

The counselor for whom I work came into the office one day to discover a poorly handwritten note. The spelling and grammar were horrible, but the gist of the note was clear. A 16 year old male student was offering his body to this woman in exchange for $2000.

Yep.

Let me see if I can reconstruct his offer:

"Dear Mrs. L-----,

I know you have lot of moneys. I am 16 years old, male student. Very hot. I need money, and I know you lonely, so I was thinking that we could have sex.

For $2000, we get sex. Is this good?

If your answer is no, PLEASE throw this note away and not think about it. It is OK. If yes, please leave a note for me in page 100 of (some book in the library, I don't remember). Is this good? OK?"

I told her that it was a decent deal, but that the grammar alone was enough reason to reject the offer. "You can't sleep with a guy who writes like that," I said. She didn't find that nearly as amusing as I did.

The counselor reported it to the principal and the police. Because of the poor quality of the writing, she correctly guessed that it was from a Special Ed kid. When the SE teacher was consulted, she recognized the handwriting and knew who it was. She showed me the note, and we compared it to an assignment the kid had written.

Busted.

When confronted, the kid initially denied the accusations. Later, however, he folded under the handwriting evidence. I wish I could have been there for that meeting, as I would have played the bad cop.

DETECTIVE BILL: Your signature is all over this, pally! We got our boys in the lab lookin' at your sick little love letter, and if you don't roll over right now, you're gonna go down and go down hard, see?

Then I would have cursed, thrown my coffee, pounded the table, walked out of the room, and been immediately fired.

It would have been grand.

Oh, and what do you get when you offer to prostitute yourself to a high school guidance counselor? Ten days suspension, that's what. You younger readers can consider that a cautionary tale.

Well, I have 23 days left until I drive off to Los Angeles and begin a five week training program that will turn me into the next Paddy Chayefsky. I assure you that I will churn out better stuff than this. Good lord.

We will discuss dreams tomorrow.