The week from heck

Some weeks it pays to stay in bed.

This week, in addition to the Pffft brouhaha, I have read a former Sailor’s blog listing the best 25 songs of the year, and the name of only one of the performers was even remotely familiar to me. I mean, it’s not as if I follow the latest music—far from it—but I usually have heard of stuff if I haven’t actually heard the stuff itself. Even if I don’t necessarily go to see the latest movies, I’ve heard of them. Ditto the latest books, or the latest TV shows. Or so I thought. Somehow I’ve fallen through the cracks, at least musically. Unless this former Sailor is a total crackpot whose tastes are so obscure even I haven’t heard of any of his picks. That has to be it. A former Sailor as a crackpot? Obviously.

Also this week, I was told by a Swede that I have a really bad Spanish accent. This is akin to being told by your yoga instructor that you’re not very good at chess. It’s Henny Youngman: The doctor tells a guy he has two weeks to live. The guy says he’d like a second opinion. So the doctor tells him that his suit doesn’t fit very well. [Supply your own rim shot.]

You can’t win.

At some point today I need to sort out getting to Princeton and tucking the Sailors into their family-provided housing. I’ve got to sort out the room data when I upload tonight to TRPC and get the data cleaned up (a lot easier these days with CP putting things into one TRPC-welcoming file). I’ve got pack up the traveling tab room for the trip tomorrow and break out the woollies for the cold snap that’s been predicted for the weekend while hoping that CP in Florida gets sunburned to the proverbial crisp. He is, after all, exceptionally white. And I’ve got to download the new Netflix Mac Play-Now software (not that I’ll ever actually watch anything, but one needs to be prepared). And, oh yeah, think about Jan-Feb somewhere in there.

Somehow staying home and running the MHL that’ll start at noon on Saturday seems to be sooooo much easier.