I feel the need to post, but it's like a multi-media Rube Goldberg experiment gone wrong around here: I'm trying to make everone out there aware of really important stuff here on the Ol' Farm; but as I write this, we got us some freakshow weather here on the Tundra. The old fuddy-duddy legacy AM station is trying to make it seem like the northern suburbs have been reduced to Pass Christian status, which is beyond pathetic, but like a crazy old acquaintance that can't stop wallowing past glories, this big, slow, dull radio station keeps pretending they are the link that keeps us all from death by atmosphere.
There's Airbus trouble over Los Angeles (and therefore live on TV). Larry King just assured the nation that there will be no more commercial breaks until they get her on the ground. Thanks, Larry, I know CNN cares more that all the other 24-hours news/hype cable stations.
It seems that Katrina has a bigger and uglier sister blowin' around out there in the warm bathwater. Looks like I picked the wrong week to buy a floating oil rig. I'm not exactly a barometer of compassion, nor do resemble anything bordering on philanthropy, but as a household, we're in for 2.15% of my 2004 take-home pay for Katrina-related donations.
Hope for FM? KCMP is playing "Gates of Steel" by Devo.
Nice that the NHL's back. I missed the ritual, and it's hard to be bitter about the whole lockout thing, especially since the local club is not part of the income-disparity disease that might still take a few teams from us in the next year or so. Fun to go last night with an old pal. The Wild defense snoozed throughout period 1, and promptly went down 3-0 to the Sabres, but at 3:55 of period 2, the boys got the first of six unanswered goals, and beat Mika Noronen like a rented goalie.
I had to return some fouled paperwork to my mortgage company, and now I can't get the envelope taste out of my mouth. I tried a dose of Belgium to chase it away, and have now just opened a second dose of the Czech stuff; we'll see how that goes. It has not improved my electronic penmanship.
Before I forget: There is nothing at all interesting about Kate Hudson. She has no redeeming value, America, so please move on.
I love this magazine. The annual music issue is out now, and, bless their souls, it reacquainted me with Number Nine Train by Dale Hawkins.
A bad day for Cindy. Her handler got busted in New York City in spite of the fact that, you know, rules don't apply to those correct of thought. Her whole 'troops out of occupied New Orleans' jive didn't last 5 minutes, so she took her sad show deeper into the embrace of the northeast. Lemme get this one straight: Bush doesn't meet with the grieving mother of a dead soldier, and he's a worldwide idiot, but Senator Clinton doesn't meet with the grieving mother of a dead soldier, and she gets a world-class pass from Big Media. The whole NYC circus is just a whistlestop, as Cindy's headed north again to next get the Blue Angels out of occupied Maine.
Batten down the hatches, Galveston; Rita's comin' over, and she's pissed.