On sleepless nights like these, I often wonder how many others out there suffer from the same sleepless issues. Maybe there are hundreds of people out there, humbugging around inside their own walls at 3 am and counting, with nobody ever the wiser. (Occasionally I also wonder, hey, if we the sleepless multitudes ever strolled outside, could we have a block party and would there be barbeque?) The issue isn't that I'm not tired. I'm pretty much always tired. It's just that I can't sleep. Or rather, that I don't sleep. Nights like these don't make much sense, really. Sometimes they allow me to write. Sometimes they make me deal with things that I avoid -- or didn't know I was avoiding -- dealing with during the sun-infested day. All I know is that these lousy waking nights practically never help the next day go smoothly. There's irony for you. Black fly, meet chardonnay. Chardonnay, meet black fly. Who would've thought.

I guess it's the holiday blues, Charlie Brown. Or else a vampire snuck in and chomped on me. So much for invitation-only. And so much for the reputation of supposedly-garlicky Italian food.

At least I still like the new four. Feel free to block party about 'em.

Well, it's happened. A cold is lying in wait for me.

If you stand really close -- which you won't, because one, you probably happen to be some random internet fiend who's gotten lost in the search for ways to send me spam about pills and mortgages and money-hungry orphans from Abu Dhabi, and two, nobody should stand close to a contagious soul like moi -- you can almost hear the lurking cold breathing heavily in the shadows of my head. It's poised to strike at any moment. Even as I type, a germy drumbeat has begun to sound, and soon the campaign to take over my nasal passages will begin in full force. You know why I'm about to catch a cold from seemingly nowhere? Because I'm busy singing in a show, so I can't possibly be allowed to continue that. I might start to look organized, or on top of things, or -- god forbid -- a little bit lucky. Guess I should have answered some of those spam chain emails once upon a time to store up a little more luck for myself. Or at least I should have poked that cheeky leprechaun with a spoon when I had the chance, instead of graciously handing him my cereal bowl. Little guy looked hungry. And Trix-rabbity.

Cold or no, 61 through 64 are new. Beat that, purple horseshoes.

I'll admit it. At times I've tossed around the idea of diddling out online movie reviews for ye olde ardent fans. As a rather intelligent and humorous-bent film major, I think I'm more than capable of doing this in a rather informed manner. Perhaps I'd call it "From The Studied Couch," and consider films for dual thinking-fun versus brainless-fun college-type audiences, and employ a rating system of graded snack food. (Chocolate bar = good, A. Jujubes = okay, C+. Bean dip = the horror, the horror, F-.) Why, the masses might even wind up enjoying my film reviews. And they might possibly learn something in the process, too -- something more about film, perhaps; more than, say, just the same old narrative star-laden crud. Maybe they'd learn about what it takes to compose a shot, or how Hollywood doesn't own creativity, or that the director is really the most important figure in how a film is made and how it looks, while the actors really have the smallest part of all ...

Yet it seems I always snap out of my review-reverie in time to remember that the web is practically choked with high falutin' film reviews already. And while such reviews definitely have their place and their following, do they really matter? Nah. Not ultimately. Opinion pieces do not a scholarly enterprise make. After all, what is the true point of film reviews? To tell the unwashed masses what to see? To attempt to point the unwashed masses toward a few more advanced filmic ideas? Yes, and yes. And while I suppose that the latter is a valid cause -- even a worthy one -- unfortunately, the unwashed masses will pretty much always see whatever crap takes their fancy, whether or not they've been reviewed or advised or plead with otherwise. That's why we still have reality television. Heck, that's why we still have Hollywood, period. (That's not really meant to be an insult. I think.) Besides, if I seriously intended to review films, then I'd have to see dozens of crappy movies myself. And my popcorn tolerance levels just aren't up to that kind of par.

You know a commercial ad has really wimped out when it goes the route of, "Hey dude, women will like, be all over you if you happen to wear/drink/pogostick/BUY this product." Because, well, no. No we won't. Ever wonder why advertising is a soulless business? Because the whole point of advertising is to create a need for products, and that means telling people that they are less of a person unless they have those products: an entire industry built on telling us that we shall never truly be complete, that we shall always, forever, in some way, suck. Kind of makes your skin crawl, huh?

But don't worry. I think I saw an ad for an expensive lotion which will clear that right up -- an ad with a puppy and a baby, no less.

Why do webfolk leave their IM on when they're not around?

I'm increasingly intrigued by the vast virtual crowds of webpeople who now enjoy sleeping while IM is still running. What is the ultimate purpose of this? To greet my fellow semi-insomniacs with the kind sentiment, "I'm sound asleep and no you may not type with me, you incompetent red-eyed fool?" Am I supposed to leave a message and wake these sleeping webpersons up, a la "WAKE UP, WAKE UP, THE BRITISH ARE COMING?!" Actually, I think I did leave a message like that once. But only because I'm cool evil like that. Of course, the really cool evil thing would be to stop using IM once and for all. But then they'd kick me out of college for not acting normal indulging Time-Warner Corporation.

And don't even get me started on cellular IMs. Here's an idea. How about waiting until you're free for a few minutes and then, maybe, just maybe, try CALLING your insipid little friends on YOUR PHONE. Just don't call me. I'm far too busy being cool sitting in my rocker and grumbling about whippersnappering technology.

Claws are not for the faint of heart.

Seems like everywhere you turn these days, there stands some random girl with a set of pink and whites stuck on her nails. If you're a male of the species -- or an otherwise-busy female of the species, all fairness considered -- you probably don't know what pink and whites are. Alas, I do. The more my shame.

Basically, a pink and white is a set of fake nails which are commonly sported by girls of the high maintenance variety. They usually represent near-perfect nails of square shape and long length, and typically require the bi-weekly refurbishing of a manicurist. And once upon a guitar-playing time, tired of my short n' simple nails and having checked my Jiminy Cricket at the door, I actually went in for a set of pink and whites myself. Let me tell you, it felt like somebody glued ten plasticized weights onto my fingertips. (Because that's kind of what they are, really.) Sadly, I tolerated them for awhile, but eventually the desire to touch something -- say, REAL SKIN -- without hearing the clickety-clack of falseitude finally outweighed the alternatives. Wantonly, madly, cricketly, I had them pried off. My hands were once again me, myself. Moi. Immensely pained by the prying, sure, but mine nonetheless.

It was then that I gained a new understanding of my own long-held belief that women sure can do a lot of stupid things to themselves. Not to say that the "idea" of high maintenance is completely stupid. In fact, every girl of above-average brain deserves to be treated like she's high maintenance, even if she isn't. You know who I'm talking about. So go call your others, species members, and tell them they're lovely. Because at least they don't suffer for glued-on claws.