Tonight, I again enjoyed the dubious pleasure of sitting through one of Mr Data's poetry readings - it was almost as excruciating as reading an issue of "Poetry" magazine from 2008 - but not quite - after all, Clive James wasn't reading - still, a harrowing three hours was had by all. He began with another paean to Dr. Crusher's cat, (of whom he is very fond) which left me feeling that his grasp of some of the finer points of vernacular is not all it could be - the opening line, for instance - "I love to stroke your pussy", seemed to elicit some unfortunate interpretations among some of the lower ranks(and, unsurprisingly, from number two). His sonnet series, based on the Quadrillian logarithmic scale of offensive smells, was particularly wearing - I still can't quite believe that "Best American Poetry 2407" published them in their entirety. The one brief moment of levity was when he attempted to reconcile, in a two-hundred stanza bel canto opus, Heisenberg's uncertainty principle and a two-week vacation with a donkey in New Jersey. It wouldn't have been quite so bad if he hadn't forgotten to calibrate his vocal circuits before beginning - he sounded like a cross between a baby seal being clubbed and a man who's caught his wedding-tackle in a mangle - think Jennifer Lopez meets Phil Collins and you have it....I must stop thinking about it - I have to polish my head before retiring and the shaking could lead to getting lacquer all over my jammies again....             

In news from the real world - the top story on Yahoo today is about some guy who's quitting some TV crime show. Very big deal. I'm not sayin' any more - but that stuff just kills me, if you want to know the truth of it. I'm not kidding...