There. Pretty as a Picture.

I had a dream about zombies last night. I was running and running and running. Finally I didn't and one ran for me. I threw him about 50 feet. Then the dream ended. I think before that I was in my rendition of the Prange Way department store where the selves were 12 feet high and all stacked with paper towel. Wait, that might have been a memory of Farm and Fleet when I was a kid.

I don't remember exactly.

Another Reminder

Last night, I had a crappy time at WORT. It reminded me of why I’m working my way out of there. I got into combo B at 7 as usual to find that the reformatted computer (Russian porn virus) lacked the recording software. After swearing and fiddling for another program capable of fulfilling the task, I drug my commentator down to the dungeon micro studio. That studio is not preferable since it’s hot in there and there’s an annoying echo. Since people were waiting, I never got to finish my conversation wit the first one. Next, I got a pair in to do a commentary. They went on for four minutes. The limit is two. They were polite about and set about to edit it.

At 7:30, I usually have access to combo A. The computer in there works fine. The problem was that the combo B computer lacked even Real Player, which I need to stream the 7:30 show. I had to stream it out of the other studio, which meant more time in the dungeon studio. Thankfully, again, my reader was patient and we kicked it out easily. The other commentators edited their script and read it in two minutes and they were off. By this time, I got combo A and finished the whole deal.

I performed my minstrel show well and kept everyone happy again. I’m kind of tired of it. I doubt anyone else that does my program (it’s shared) could pull that shit off week after week. Usually, I can go into WORT in a foul mood and come out in a good one. Lately, it’s been the other way around. Almost all of the people I have ever dealt with are good people and I enjoy them, but the system fails more than I can handle anymore.

I phoned my roommate and got him to pick up some good beer, had two for dinner and relaxed. Soon it will be over.

Good Shit

I'm listening to this album. I can't trumpet it enough.

Whole Lotta Belly Laughin'

I'm listening to "Whole Lotta Yoko". I think its funnier than "Teach Me Tiger". God, this woman cannot sing, or yodel, or whatever it is she's trying to do. It makes for good, limited entertainment for a minute.

-yi -yi -yi -ah -ah -ah -ah
yi -yi -yi -ah -ah -ah -ah -ah

Ok, that's enough. Onto Elastica.

Scratch That

I just can't bring myself to sell all my CDs. It's not the most practical decision, since I don't play the actual CDs anymore, but so be it. I've spent countless hours digging for a lot of them. Some are not in print or were limited release when I bought them. I need a physical manifestation of all that work and all the countless hours/days/weeks/months/years spent listening to the stuff. I have the room since the actual stuff that matters most to me fits in about two 30"x40"x18" boxes as is. I'll keep my quirk, thank you.

Sun

It's sunny again today. I get edgy and depressed when it's sunny for more that three days in a row. Well, I don't get full blown, but begins to creep in. Why is that? I have no trouble with my mood in the middle of January when it's below zero, windy, and overcast for two weeks. Show the sun and make it 65 for a week straight and I'm pissed off. I guess I'm out of sync with most of the world. That's cool.

Who Are These People?

Sometimes I wonder the story behind someone whose path I cross. Last night, Shaun and I went out to get a drink or two. We wanted to go some place we hadn’t been before. We found a bar called Player’s (voted Madison’s Sleaziest Bar in 1992, or so showed a plaque on the wall) over in Schenk’s Corners. It had “Dive Tavern” written all over it. The Schenk/Atwood/Williamson neighborhoods have changed from skid row (Williamson) and blue collar (Schenk/Atwood) to highly desirable place to live in the last 25 or so years. This bar was a hold over of the blue-collar tavern.

The first person to make me wonder was some drunk guy. His drunk was the brain damage/heavily medicated by painkillers sort. The radio blared something about two guys being arrested for tampering with a packaged good since they goobered in a canned beer or something. Old Train Wreck looked straight at us and starting mumbling/slurring his diatribe about how those guys could have had aids, and that would be murder. It took him about five minutes to say that. Some girl he knew that was leaving grabbed his attention and he mumbled after her. Does this guy work in a factory job and head straight to the bar after work? Does he have any family around? Miller or Bud? Or Jack Daniels? Is he quiet when sober or does he sound the same, only slightly more intelligible?

The other person in question was a woman selling roses. You know the type; the one with the shallow basket draped over her elbow. Usually you see her on the Cruel All My Li.. I mean Valentine’s Day or on the lakefront of some fancy area. Nope, she was in Madison’s Sleaziest Bar 1992. Nobody, including us, bought a rose, but she was very polite and everyone was back to her. Shaun and I wondered if that was a needed job for her or if she does it for kicks. It wasn’t something she just decided to do five minutes before she showed up. She had her hair pulled back and was wearing a sleek black dress. She was in the bar all of three minutes. We wondered where she went next.

We left Madison’s Sleaziest Bar 1992 after one drink and headed over to Wonders Pub. I threw a riddle at Shaun, which he ended up getting right after a while, but in between questions, we wondered about the rose lady again. He said he wish he would have bought a rose but said he had no one to give it to. I said he should have bought one for her. He got upset that he didn’t think of that at the time and he remained fixated on it until we got home. Does anybody do that? Buy a rose from the vendor and give it to the vendor? Would she keep it for her own or just throw it back into the pile and sell it again? I think I’d like the one that would keep it for herself.