It’s a Radiohead lyric I’ve had in my head for sometime now. The ironic thing is, many of Thom’s lyrics you can’t really understand – it’s the tunes and how they’re layered that deliver that shotgun spray. But in it’s own way, Radiohead’s music is like any literature worth reading, or even the scriptures for that matter – it takes initiative and an adept mind to discover why this band’s the best in the world, and most likely the best the world will ever see.
But look, I’ve digressed before I’ve even started.
Every once in a while I don’t disappoint Kevin’s blogger stereotype and I’ll take a picture with my camera phone of something “I’ve just got to blog about later.” Well, this post is going to be a clinking, clanking, clattering collection of collaginous junk, err, blog post ideas.
Word is, they won’t work for nobody but you.
What, pray tell, is a Wahoo? And even if there is one among you who knows what the bloody thing is, I know for certain that it’s not purchased or sought after enough to warrant its own grocery store sign.
Last July, Jonathan and I went to Telluride, Colorado for a Bob Dylan concert (My Morning Jacket opened for them – a truly righteous bill if I’ve ever seen one). The day before the show we decided to hit up the municipal golf course for a round of 18.
I brought my driver, but left my drive at home. For the first time in this poor house’s existence, someone was not only able to badly hook the ball enough to reach the house, but had the power & distance to clear its protective trees and nail this double-paned window right smack in the middle. Luckily it only shattered one pane. Hey, at least I can drive for power every now and then.
Here’s my only camera phone pic of MMJ opening for Bob. As you can see, the security detail at our second row seats weren’t too keen on photography.
Is there some sort of custard-related memorial holiday commemorating something in mid-January that I and the rest of the world don’t know about? Apparently.
Shootin’ stuff with Paulie. Paul’s bad. Like, Snake Eyes bad.
I just want to know if they’ll take a cashier’s check.
So last October I played in this one night tournament with my sister, Kiera’s co-ed softball team. I played horrendously at the plate. Worst. Batting. Ever. But my fielding (in left-center) was stupendous. But the play of the game belonged to Kiera at catcher (yes, this team wasted her superior talents at catcher. I’d play Kiera at 3B over any guy on my softball team.).
It was a tight game and she’d already been mowed over once at the plate. Our opposition was down by a couple runs in the last inning and during a routine play at first for the second-to-last out of the game, the guy on third decided to jog towards home and force a play at the plate – for the sole purpose of plowing over Kiera in hopes of knocking the ball loose and getting one run closer. Kiera gets the ball, braces for impact, and this guy (GUY!) goes cornerback on her and puts his full weight and shoulder into leveling her.
She not only hangs onto the ball for the last out of the game, but proceeds to unleash a verbal barrage on this dude that brought a proud tear to a proud older brother.
Here are her bruises and wounds from that play. You can’t see them very well, but the chin raised slightly in triumph says it all. Sorry guys, she’s engaged.
Soon Stefan will be joining his brothers and father in the ranks of married, pathetic, softball playing, working men.