I'm in a random state of mind. So it's time for another edition of the Midnight Madness. Here goes.

- I think there's a good possibility that I may go absolutely berserk tomorrow. I've heard enough Christmas music to last me a few years. Let's take a break from it next year, since I think we've gotten our fill for a while.
- The stress is beginning to show, apparently. One of my co-workers asked me on Friday if I was okay, because he thought I was wound tighter than a clock's springs. And people keep asking me how they can help. What I really need right now is 5 days at a beachside all-inclusive Mexican resort. I haven't had a real vacation in almost 2 1/2 years, all of my time off since then has been "working time off," meaning that I may not be at work, but I have serious things to take care of that prevent me from taking any time for myself. Also, the accent is starting to show again, which is a bad sign. I normally don't speak with an accent at all (one of the great things about growing up in Connecticut), but I have a Brooklyn accent that comes out when I'm really angry, tired or drunk. And, for some odd reason, the Canadian accent is rearing its ugly head again, and I have no idea where it came from. The combination makes it sound funny when I tawk oooot loud.
- There's only one explanation for Dick Clark's longevity: He's an android sent by another civilization to study us, then rise to power and conquer us. You got a better explanation? I'm all ears.
- I need a Trixie. This has been mutually agreed upon by myself and friends.
- I'm thoroughly convinced my mom would be a great host on Animal Planet. Every time I talk to her, she gets über-excited and begins to list off all the wildlife she's seen around their new place in Tucson. I mean, it's great and all and I'm glad she's excited about it, but it gets to that point where there's only so much I can take, and I feel like telling her to change her internal channel to HBO or Comedy Central.
- Since 9/11, my building has had this thing where we have to have key cards that we wave at an area on the elevator panel -- it clears us up to our own particular floors. We're only cleared for our own floors, no one else's. And it takes a few seconds for the elevator to detect our key cards and flash green, clearing us to our floor. So I was a little pissed today when this woman pushed me out of the way to get into the elevator -- and cleared herself up to the top floor. I, on the other hand, work on the 3rd floor, so I'm trying to get into the elevator and get myself cleared and push the button before the doors close and we go up and pass the 3rd floor and I have to ride all the way up and back down. Why did she have to be first? I hate rude and pushy people.
- Musicians get paid for having bad relationships. Ben Folds' solo CD, Rockin' the Suburbs, and Stroke 9's latest disc, 100 Girls, were thoroughly about past relationships that they had been involved in that went bad. And we pay them for the discs, so we're paying them for their therapy. Meanwhile, the rest of us have to go to our psychologists and pay more money to them to make us right in the head. If only we knew beforehand that we could just pick up a guitar or a piano and a recording contract and go on tour to cleanse ourselves of our demons, maybe we wouldn't be known as the Prozac Nation as much.
- Sleep is good. That's where I'm a pirate! (Thank you, Ralph Wiggum.)

Try the veal. Be sure to tip your waitress. Thanks, and good night.

Yeah, I might be losing it.