TGMFGIFF

Though there are no weekends here. Every day is another Sunday. At one point this week there were about eleven of us sitting around the office discussing just how Chris and Kate should send that film from India back here to be edited. Craig’s List. By camel. UPS. Just send the parts we need. DSL. Edit it there. Use a private courier. A private jet. That big-ass Russian plane they flew the Calatrava over in. Or, was that Russian? Someone call that Cudahy guy! Smuggle it with illegal aliens. Hire people to duct tape it to their chests. Portion it out, put it in condoms, and up the butt. Or swallow it. In a fake heal. Wait! It's not illegal, you're off on the wrong tangent. Send Indian guys with it here. Send Wisconsinite's over there. Meet half-way, perhaps.

All of the arguing and hubbub and speculation reminded me of this song called "The Experts" by Fuzzhead on their CD "I saw the best minds of my generation ROCK." It sounds like the tape kept running in the studio while a bunch of guys argued about how to best redesign and soundproof their recording area. It's classic. The situation here was classic as well. Why no one is making a documentary can only be attributed to that ole documentary burnout that has afflicted us all.