The Dark and Stormy Book Club continues to go swimmingly. We did the show on Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? yesterday. A masterpiece that is most of 200 years old is up next. Come join us. We’re smart, sexy, fun, and we won’t drink all of your beer.
My mother pilfered from examination rooms at doctor’s offices. She’d put three or four gauze pads and a few alcohol swabs in her purse, for example. I never asked her about it (and now I can’t), but every time I’m waiting for a doctor and glance at the cabinet or drawer I wonder how she would have rationalized it. (‘Cause, you know, “stealing” is such a nasty word.)
Lindsey Buckingham is playing a small hall (400-500, maybe) on HDNet as I type, and it’s good enough that I set the remote down. I was pleased and surprised to hear “Holiday Road” in the set. I would think that might be a song he would pretend he never did. Buckingham has never stirred a large amount of fanhood in me, but I do respect him as a talented songwriter and a charismatic performer. (Plus he screwed Stevie Nicks a whole bunch.)
I have never watched a James Bond movie from start to finish, tasted pistachio ice cream, or set foot in the state of Louisiana.
Bad clocks in electronic devices are on the rise, if my experiences are typical. My PDA, a current Palm model, gains a second every five and a half hours. That is ridiculous and inexcusable.
The little-fella soccer team for which we cheer the hardest is the Red Flames. We play teams like the Blue Lasers and the Penguins. Just once I’d love to hear a coach introduce his/her charges as the Angels of Death, the Assassins, the Ministers of Pain, the Shrieking Demons, or the Bloodlusters. (Or, with apologies to Judas Priest, the Jugulators.)
When it’s Alabama 41, Tennessee 17, then “Rocky Top” becomes a catchy little tune that I love to whistle. It would be marvelous to add “Chinese Bandits” to that list in two weeks.
Thank you, person who turned in my watch today after I left it on the sidewalk at AutoZone.