My Sick Mind

Saturday night I went to see Umphrey's McGee in Philly. They're probably the best "never heard of them" band around and if you get the chance, you should hear of them. I'll spare you the details, but I lost my keys twice during the evening - once in a restaurant and again at the show later. There were bouts of mild panic followed by resolution when they once showed up at the hostess station and later with a security guard. The problem with being a single person is that when something like that happens, there is no alternative course of action. If my keys had indeed vanished, I ran several scenarios over in my head, all of which involved a locksmith to (a) get me into my car and (b) get me into my house. Getting home would have involved an expensive cab ride and sleeping outside until the locksmith was available would have been uncomfortable. I think that's why single people have shorter life spans. I'm personally boycotting the Sarah Palin appearances ...

Chances are you don't watch it, but there is a TV program on Sunday called CBS Sunday Morning , that for my money is better than 60 Minutes . The biggest difference is that the morning program is buried in Sunday morning TV wasteland, while the big-time news show is on at the perfect time for a big-time news show. This morning, there was a story about the 40th anniversary of the Summer of Love , of which I have vague memories, mostly because I was 9 years old and not yet into psychedelic drugs, and partly because my father had died in May of that year, and for me it was summer, but there was precious little love. The focus of the Sunday Morning piece was the nostalgia that is brought about by the so-called Summer of Love. I say so-called because for most of those involved it it, the Summer of Love was 1966. The following year was the summer that the media latched onto it and made it the cultural event that it has become. That's where I come in. Most of us in the Blogosphere be...

...there is a thirty percent chance that my drunk-ass will get rained on before I get to the Electric Factory for the Umphrey's McGee show tonight. Math, as we know, is absolute - which is why I'm drinking Southern Comfort. "Why aren't you driving?" you ask. I never drive to the city. The Electric Factory is near 6th and Callowhill, so I'll take the Speed Line to 8th and Market and start looking for bars. Any old port in the storm. A full report will be filed tomorrow - but not too early. I do know this: It won't be "lame", like Police drummer Stewart Copeland called their Vancouver show the other night. LOS ANGELES (Reuters) - The singer in the Police jumps like a "petulant pansy," the drummer is making a "complete hash," and who knows what the guitarist is doing? "This is unbelievably lame," Copeland wrote of Wednesday's show at the GM Place arena. "We are the mighty Police and we are totally at sea....

As I grow older, I find that my feeble mind (my second choice for a blog title) gets fixated on one thing at the exclusion of all others. In this case, it's my rather hectic schedule over the next week or so. My new bike should be together and road-worthy by Friday or Saturday. In addition to paying for it (ugggghh) I need to find time to get there and pick it up. I'll be off on Friday, so I hope it is ready then. Why am I taking Friday off? Glad you asked. Friday night, Umphrey's McGee is playing at The Electric Factory . The show starts at 8:30 (with Tea Leaf Green ), and they probably won't go on until around 10 - and play for 3 hours or so - so I'm sleeping in a bit so I won't fall asleep on the Hi-Speed line and miss my stop, as I have done in the past. That's a particularly odd experience. I take the train from the Woodcrest station, and coming home I have to be fairly alert to be sure I don't miss my stop. Once, I got off a stop too soon and o...

Too tired to go to the gym, so I decided to sit and relax in front of my friend, the TV. These were my choices tonight: Nancy Grace debating for the one-millionth time, the controversy over the fate of Anna Nicole's baby. Holy crap, Nancy. Open a newspaper and find something else to talk about, will ya? Please. Dancing with the Stars , which, in spite of the dearth of stars, continues with the dancing. Even Cheryl Burke wasn't enough to keep me tuned in. Seemingly, for three hours it went on - some "results show" or something. "Results" of what, I have no idea. Boring. On several channels, the ongoing nonsense over some stupid remarks made by a radio host who long ago was irrelevant, and only now has found a voice, common sense notwithstanding. Anus, I think his name is. Meanwhile, the piling on continues, with bystanders becoming interested parties. Include me out. Jim Cramer screaming about Charter Communications , and telling his viewers that if they bid...

Indulge me while I take a break from watching paunchy men play golf . Thank you. After yesterday's post about my travails at the ballpark, I wanted to see what the wind chill was. A 43-degree temperature with 24mph winds makes for a "real-feel" of 34 degrees, according to the calculator over at NASA's site . I was curious, since I think the wind chill is a ridiculous notion, as to what the wind chill was when it was 95. Factor in a 20mph wind, and it feels like 103. I thought the wind was supposed to cool us down? Wind chill is ridiculous to me because I never really know what any temperature feels like. If it feels like 34 degrees, what does 34 feel like? I don't know, because when it's 34, the wind chill is 25. For practice, I go outside on calm days so I can figure out what real temperatures feel like. It's a hobby. Has anybody besides me noticed this little note that comes up when uploading a photo on Blogger? Apparently, we have a limit, after which, ...