Neanderpundit

I turn the radio off on my way to work. I have a long drive and a lot of talk radio invariably leaves me wanting to shoot the radio.

Most music stations anymore play either abject crap or moldy oldies, and while I have no objection to moldy oldies, at least play the ones I LIKE more than once an hour.

The hour and a half of silence in the morning is good woolgathering time. When most of your career involves pulling manufacturing solutions out of thin air using powdered unicorn horn, butterfly farts and unobtanium, the more time you spend woolgathering the more likely you are to be able to provide meaningful solutions.

Sometimes, though, I use one of the functions of my magic Elf box and play youtube videos of songs I like through the stereo in the car. This morning was one such time, and one of my ‘Drive” playlists involves the lively rhythms of “Solsbury hill” and the crunchy guitar of “Locomotive breath” and the driving chord progression of “Riding the storm out”

So today, instead of arriving beaten and bruised and ready for another day of torturous abuse, I arrived beaten and bruised and ready for another day of torturous abuse but with a couple good songs running around my head.

is kicking my ass. This morning everything ached like I had been gang raped by the hungarian militia. And the best is yet to come.

Digging in the crawlspace I came on a cache of bicycle tires, some fairly old, whitewall cruisers. None seemed dry rotted. I’m gonna put them on ebay and if I can make $50 I will buy a used pair of lederhosen and wear them to work. And my reputation as the looney old creep will be well and truly cemented in place.

Damn, I need some sleep.