I’m having regrets about getting rid of the ’80s cassettes. Where else will I find a complete collection of bands that stood the test of time, like Bang Tango, Trixter and Saigon Kick? Somewhere out there, some guy with a row of jelly bracelets, a tape deck and a dream went to the Goodwill and struck a goldmine. It is my mission to reclaim what’s mine, even if it takes until the next set of ’80s to find him.
The Face of America
(At least, from Texas to Maine.)
As luck would have it
Daisy was in deep shit today—literally. We were getting the septic cleaned when she took a curious sniff and fell right in. Doug found her clinging for dear life and yanked her up by the scruff of her neck, saving her from a most abominable fate.
What naturally ensues is an addendum to the great philosophical debates: free will or determinism? Creationism or evolution? And now, Daisy: luckiest or unluckiest dog?
Not that there’s anything wrong with them.
At the Amherst Railroad Hobby Show at the Big E, I’ve decided there are three types of grown men who concern me the most: those who will spend $1,200 on a windmill for their own model railroad empires; pedophiles ogling at my children from behind train display tables; and those who spend hours of footage videotaping trains going around their tracks. Nothing like a day of wonder, nostalgia and the heebie-jeebies.