I’ve never been a very lucky person, unless bad luck is taken into consideration…but I do seem to have the market cornered in one area. Over the past decade I have, periodically, been able to score guest list spots from our local college radio station. There seems to be a certain formula at work: the intensity of my desire to see the band(s) + the degree of my destitution = score! It’s a bit eerie. When I hear the K somehow I just know how long I need to pause before dialing, et voila, I am caller number seven. This was the case around seven o’clock this morning. I am a bit conflicted, though. On Saturday I’ll be going to see The Strike, who I love, with my lovely date Zophia, who I also love. Unfortunately The Strike is playing the entry at the very same time the Mates of State are playing the Triple Rock. Woe is me. At least I’ll be getting out of the house, and partaking of the rock. It’s been ages since I’ve done so. And ages more since I’ve partaken with Zophia. In other news, and news of the weird at that…yesterday I walked to work, as I do. My quiet, contemplative stroll took a strange turn when I got into downtown. Before I could see the throngs of people I could hear the banging of drums, the bleating of strange horns, and, ah, bagpipes. Apparently my office was on the the St. Patrick’s Day Parade route. As I drew nearer I spotted men and women in kilts, but more folks were decked out head to toe in garish green garb.
