Hi kids. The first thing I want to tell you is that I don't want to write this column. I don't want to write it because I'm in an exceedingly bad mood right now. Here are some things I'd rather be doing: (a) going home, (b) curling up with a nice bottle of wine, (c) getting up a half dozen times to go buy cigarettes, (d) sitting back down again because I don't smoke any more, and (e)-(i) watching the five episodes of The Simpsons that I have on tape. But I'm not doing that, am I? No. I'm (j) writing this column.

Or, I'm trying to write it. The thing is, I don't have any ideas for a column. I had one thought last night involving the email correspondence between me and my ISP in which we discuss the fact that all emails sent to me of late have been bouncing. Here's a sample:

Me: Hey, Norcov. All my emails of late seem to be bouncing. Any idea why that is?

Norcov:

And, believe me, this is a very fascinating topic, but the only funny thing I could come up with in the 30 seconds I thought about it was the title ("ISPU"). So I think I'll just ramble. I've got a variety of things on my mind anyway and maybe we don't need just one topic for this week's column. Perhaps I'll cover a multitude of interesting and worthwhile subjects, in the style of USA Today's engaging "factoids."

We'll start off with my favorite factoid: me. Why am I in such a bad mood, you're probably wondering? I'd rather not go into it. Besides, I know you don't want to hear any more mewling from me on a topic that I think I may have already touched upon in an earlier column (chicks). What is the phrase? Beating a dead horse? Something like that? And, really, there's much more to my exciting life than romance (or the lack thereof). It's time I moved on to the other fascinating aspects of The World of Clash.

So we won't dwell on why I'm in such a foul humor, but you may still want to know why, considering my mood, I'm taking time away from drinking and sitting on the couch to write this column. Good question. It's because I love YOU, my readers. More than anything else in this world. I know how you look forward to each and every column I write and, goddammit, I'm not going to let you down. How can I live with myself knowing the disappointment you feel logging on to PWC only to discover, day after day, that there is still no new Clash's Corner entry? Well, I can't live with myself, and so I take pen in hand (figuratively) and begin this new column, despite the fact that I really, really, really don't want to do it. Or, to be more precise, despite the fact that I really, really, really wouldn't want to do it, if I didn't care so much about you folks.

Plus my editor's an asshole and he's been hounding me nonstop. He's one of those "quantity not quality" people -- you know the type. God they make me sick. He doesn't understand the relationship between scarcity and value. "What's so great about the Taj Mahall?" he'd say. "Sure, it's a nice building but, what, they got tired after the first one?" Anyone notice how he's patting himself on the back for how quickly he turns out HIS columns? He's a fucking column-producing machine. It has been at least 30 minutes since I was last on PWC, so I'm sure there are five new "introductions" by now. And he's soooo proud of himself. Here's a (slightly inarticulate) quote: "I hope you've all been noticing how regularly I'm able to get these columns out on time lately."

BFD. How much effort does it take to go out to the garage and whip the thousand monkeys or whatever he does? I could put out one column per day, fer crissakes, if only I had my editor's fondness for scatological humor and inappropriate topics like tit fucking. But, because I care about you, I try to stick to the high road. By the way, any ideas why he's going on and on about his newspaper job, like he's Reporter Boy or something? He has a job -- what? -- fixing typewriters, I think. A job that just happens to be at the Washington Post but, really, could just as easily be at, say, the post office. And all of a sudden he's Bob Woodward? I'll bet he's bought himself a fedora and put a little "press" card in the hat band. Would one of you who see him from time to time email me and let me know if this is true? I'll bet it is. Of course, I'm fanning the flames by referring to him as "my editor," but it's OK to indulge in fantasy when I do it.

You really want to know what's bugging me, don't you? Look, I DON'T want to get into it. But let me just say this: I'm going back to DC for Christmas, right? And I'm totally stoked to be headed back to the East Coast. I'll see a bunch of my old friends, hang out with my family, renew my fondness for the Capitol City, and generally kick back and enjoy life. I had it all planned out. It was going to be great.

Then, a month ago or so, my ex-girlfriend (let's just call her "Holly") emailed me to find out what I was doing for Christmas. I replied that I would be spending it at the Trask Estate in Locust Grove, Virginia, where my proud parents live. "Oh," she said. "That will be nice." Yes, I thought, it WILL be nice.

Some time passed and then I got this email from the aforementioned Holly:

"Do you think we can get together when your [sic] back here? I'd really love to see you. I miss you, Snugs [this is her little pet name for me, and, no, you don't need to know why she calls me this], and I'd LOVE to see you [emphasis in original]. I can pick you up at the airport, we can spend a few days together and then I'll take you down to your parents house." Boing. That sounds good....

Oh, fuck it. I had a whole thing here but I did promise not to turn this into yet ANOTHER column devoted to my sad lack of romantic opportunities, now didn't I? Please forgive the aborted digression above, even if it was your fault for bringing it up in the first place.

Let's see, where was I? Oh, yes, I was ragging on Pinback. So he's Joseph freakin' Pulitzer now that he's the new Toner Replacement Specialist down at the Post, is he? I can see him holding court down at The Post Pub: "Yeah, it's tough being a reporter. Constantly on the road, grabbing a bite to eat every third day, dodging bullets as you hand your latest dispatch to the Telex operator. But, hell, I wouldn't have it any other way. I got printer's ink in my blood, always have. D'ever tell you about the time -- hahahahaha...this is classic -- about the time me and P.J. O'Rourke were in Seoul? We're both covering the Korean presidential elections, right, and the students are rioting something fierce." Except he's sitting in a booth by himself....

Maybe you think this is all a little too harsh. Ben and I have been friends for, what, six...seven years now? And I admire the hell out of him, I really do. If this were 1940 and I were in a noir film, I'd say he's "aces." It's just that he's been putting all this pressure on me lately to get a column in. Sure, I made some representations in the beginning about producing a bi-weekly column. But if he doesn't know by now how unreliable I am, well that's his own fault, isn't it? And do I need this pressure? No, I certainly do NOT.

For one thing, I've got this nation's next generation of lawyers to educate. My job at the law school is a very demanding one and my almost super-human dedication to the lives and careers of my young students makes it even more intense. I've taken it upon myself to...

Ohhhh, Chumbawamba just came on the radio. Factoid: Chumbawamba are cool as shit, even if they are communists. Jacob Dylan, who was on the radio right before Chumbawamba, is, on the other hand, an annoying bitch-boy. Maybe you don't like my "French," but it had to be said.

You see, the thing is I had my Christmas vacation all planned out. As I said, I was going to spend most of the time camped out in my parents' totally cool house, smoking the occasional joint (which, by the way, I haven't done for close to two months now, just so the effect will be enhanced when I get back home) and grooving on life in a very serious way. And then Holly chimes in with her email. I should have said, "no, I'm pretty much booked up for the holidays, but thanks anyway." Just leave it at that. But instead, I voiced a variation on that sentiment, which was: "sure, that sounds great." Then things escalated. "Let's have a party to welcome you back to Washington! We can invite all the people from your old law firm! You and I can be the hosts! It will be just like old times! [emphasis added.] Bill [her upstairs neighbor/landlord] will be away, and we'll have the place to ourselves! What do you say, Snugs, will be my little co-host?"

Well, what could I say? "No?" "Sorry, Hol, can't do it?" That would have been downright rude, all things considered. So I said, "sure, that sounds great." After all, even if breaking up was my idea (which decision I underscored rather bluntly by moving to California), I guess I won't completely get over Holly until I start my next relationship. And, just to complete the syllogism, I should let you know that I have not, as of yet, started my next relationship. I'm still sifting through all the offers. So even if I have a vague sense that, perhaps, I'm not exactly acting in my own best interest here, I'm thinking: if Holly is so anxious to see me, who am I to deprive her of the opportunity?

Right. I made a promise earlier, didn't I? Man, these digressions just slip in. My bad. This is the last you'll here of the Holly Incident.

So I've got all these eager young minds to train and...oh, who am I kidding? I'm a secretary. A secretary in a law school. Actually, I'm an Administrative Assistant in a law school, and, as we all know, there's a world of difference between a secretary and an Administrative Assistant. First, one is capitalized and the other is most definitely not. Second...um...well, I'll have to get back to you but, believe me, these are two radically different jobs. And fuck you, anyway. I've got nothing to be ashamed of. Maybe I'm not "pushing the envelope," to employ that testosterone-imbued phrase that some like to use in describing their professional activities here in Silicon Valley, but I am at least addressing the envelope, putting a stamp on it, and taking it down to the mail room. And it's stressful as hell, too. You try looking like you're doing important law-school work with alt.drugs.pot up on your screen. Trust me, it's a struggle.

Here's another interesting factoid: We don't have any hot water at Casa LT tonight. I just talked to the apartment "manager," who told me that the hot water heater (of which there is, or rather was, a grand total of ONE to serve all 38 apartments here at San Simeon North) "blew up" at about 10:00 this morning. The repairman was expected by 2:30, 3:00 at the latest. Oops, s/he's only seven hours late. Do I expect to take a nice relaxing hot shower tomorrow morning? Sh'yeah, right, about as much as I expect to be boning Holly this Christmas.

"Wait, Clash," you're saying, "it sounds to me like Holly is making all kinds of overtures towards you. Why on earth wouldn't you expect to give her the high hard one during this, our holiest of holidays?"

I thought we agreed not to talk about this. I've got a boatload of factoids to dispense, some of which I may not be able to get to if you keep pulling the conversation back to the one topic that we all promised to avoid. But since you ask, I'll say this: I was planning on giving it to the Holmeister. Over and over again. In fact, my plane lands at Dulles airport at 3:28 pm on Saturday, and I more or less assumed I'd be knocking the bottom out of Holly by, say, 4:03 pm, depending on traffic. I mean, if you could have seen the emails I've gotten.

And then I spoke to her on the phone this afternoon. Here's how it went: "[Some crap about how she can't wait to see me and then:] The best news is that Bill will be gone the whole weekend [she forgot she already told me this]! That means that I can sleep upstairs and you can sleep downstairs! I was worried that you wouldn't be comfortable on the couch, but [she's excited about this] now you can sleep in a real bed!" I feigned indifference, but I knew, even as the words were leaving her lips, that my schedule was going to be booked solid for the next few days. Here's a glimpse at my DayTimer:

• 3:15 pm -- Phone call with Holly.
• 3:17 pm -- Mope.
• 3:18 pm -- Continue moping.
• 3:19 pm - 5:07 pm -- Pretend to read newsgroups but secretly mope.
• 5:08 pm -- Leave work early/feel sorry for self (mope).
• 5:17 pm -- Head over to Henry's Bar and Grille. Drink heavily. Mope.
  [this is scratched out, however, and "stay at work, write fucking column so Pinback will SHUT THE FUCK UP/mope" is penciled in]
• Friday - foreseeable future -- See Thursday, 3:18 pm entry.

So that's all I'm going to say about the whole Holly adventure. It's got me a little ticked, as you may have noticed. But I promised you a wide-ranging column filled with interesting and fun factoids, and I will not -- nay, I can not -- let you down.

Factoid: If you write a word over and over again, the effect is just the same as saying it over and over again: you start to think it's not really a word. Like this: mope, mope, mope, mope, mope...mope?

Factoid: I'm starting to get a little drunk because, despite some intimations earlier, I didn't stay at work to write this column. I bought a bottle of wine and came home. Of course, I headed straight to the couch, but, even in my state of utter despair, my devotion to you, my loyal readers, won out. Thus I find myself behind the keyboard of my wonderful new computer, writing these words of love.

Factoid: Factoid, factoid, factoid, factoid, factoid, factoid, factoid, factoid, factoid, factoid, factoid, factoid, factoid, factoid, factoid, factoid, factoid, factoid, factoid, factoid, factoid -- it still works!

Factoid: I'm really spinning now. I just spent the last seven minutes writing the word "factoid" for 23.5 pages. Except I wasn't really writing it -- I found out it's much easier to keep working on my column AND drink wine if I use MS Word's helpful cut-and-paste feature. There was one near tragedy, however, when the neighborhood cat (Oscar), who keeps trying to climb into my lap and then gets pissed when I won't sit still, nearly knocked over my glass as he jumped down in a fit of pique. Fortunately, even in my state of inebriation, I

Factoid: Zinfandel is a much heavier wine than chianti. To my palate, zinfandel tastes more like a cabernet. On the whole, I'd say that I prefer chianti; I like its fresh, tart flavor more than the oakier, more complex flavor of zinfandel. Here's another interesting thing about wine: MS Word does not like the fact that I haven't capitalized "chianti", but it's just fine with the lower-case "z" in zinfandel and the "c" in cabernet. Go figure.

Factoid: Here's a joke I made up last night as I was walking home from dinner: What did the woman say after she'd eaten a spoiled Middle-Eastern meatless patty? "Oh, I falafel!" Hahahahahaha. Get it? I made that up myself. I falafel! Hahahahahahahahahaha!

Factoid: It's about an hour later noe, as I had to take a break to watch an episode of Friends that I had taped earlier this evening. Make all the jokes you want about my viewing habits, but let me tell you one thing: That Rachel is a BABE. I'm going to email her and tell her to read my columns here at PWC. If there's one thing that women find attractive, it's a guy who obsesses about the fact that he doesn't have a girlfriend.

Factoid: I'm now out of wine but, luckily, the Derby Market is still open and I happen to know they have wine. Back in a minute.

Factoid: Ok, I'm back.

Factoid: Is this getting annoying? The whole structure of this piece has completely broken down. Narritive's right out the window. So's spelling, but I feel fine about that. Perhaps I should concentrate more on character development. That's what they were always braying about in my English classes at school. Ok, here goes: Stephan winced at the suggestion he get a job. He'd been happily ensconced in a social position that rendered the very notion of labor of any kind little more than an amusing reference to be tossed out at cocktail parties. "Perhaps I'll join on as a troubadour-for-hire," he'd say with a wry smile and wait for the titters to effuse from the collection of debutantes and alcoholic older sisters who comprised his audience. Inwardly, however, he knew that his trust fund would not long support the weekends at the Cape and his prized thrice yearly month-long trips to the Continent.

Factoid: I can barely see. I think the wine is starting to kick in.

Factoid: I falafel! Hahahahahahahahaha! Man, that is one funny joke. Any of you should feel free to use it, but I expect royalties.

Factoid: Let's play "Who Am I?" Well, I work for the Fifth Estate now. That's right, I'm a news hound. Blah blah blah blah blah. Get your column in! I've written six in the last two minutes. Blah blah blah blah blah. Tit fucking! Toilet paper! I got a million of them. Blah blah blah blah blah. So I said to Margaret Graham the other day, "yeah, well I know news, sweetheart, and let me tell you one thing!"

Factoid: I'm going to sleep.