Excuse #7: Would You Believe... Lost at Sea?

Park bench I can imagine. Eating from the garbage too. But I'm not falling for your inward-seeking-shoegazer con this time, Lauper. I choose to think of the Brat Pack's brief lapses of consciousness (and detours from expectation) as inevitable forays into the creative realm, ritualized gatherings to recall and serve an ancient, hallowed purpose... that's right, rehearsals to learn more hits from the 80s! So stop lying (refer to section 5a.vii. of your agreement) and focus on the business of getting down with your bad selves.

Excuse #6: Communion with Nature

And so, devastated by TOMMY's superior wisdom and sickened by blondacity (or blondie-ism, if you prefer 90s reductionist terminology to the classical,) I sought comfort in the loving arms of spring's return. Yes I wandered transcendent through the flora, contemplating happiness and meaning and bunnies, merrily passing the weeks without a care, sleeping on or under park benches and eating from the garbage, until the gnashing of teeth of our blog's millions of readers startled me back, and it was time to get in the van and go to the gig.

Excuse #5: Creative Differences

Perhaps you would accept a modified version of excuse 4. The truth is that TOMMY TUBULAR and I had a big falling out about what qualifies a person as blonde. For a few weeks, I stood by my belief that the wig is everything, but eventually, through science and reason, TOMMY's top research assistant Josh of Seagulls persuaded me of the roles of cybernetics and chromosomal misbehavior in authentic blondeness (or blondacity, the preferred 80s term.)