American pie chart

Can’t sleep at night. Lot of stuff going on in the world, and my chest feels funny.

The whole planet is protesting war, and I’m mudding drywall and stapling insulation. Have another caramel, Brian.

House escrows will close Friday. Telephone company wrongly scheduled the changeover. ISP said to shove my DSL up my A-S-S, until the new phone line is installed. The moving van rental store says they can’t guarantee a lift gate. Got a rent-back on the house and a back-ordered refrigerator. Final walk-through, final walk-through, sign the papers, make the deadline.

Cover story? Sure, rewrite it and get it to me on Monday. What d’ya mean? Your e-mail is down and you can’t fix it? Welcome to the ’90s, my friend. OK, I’ll be the bad guy; if you can’t talk to people instead of about them, then I’ll let you off the hook. Around here, we call that compassion. My team rocks and has the sand to make music in the desert.

This pinging sound bothers me. It’s the low-tank idiot tone in my SUV. The cell phone chimes in.

An older model Toyota pickup has dueling bumper stickers: “Fear my government” and “I fear my government.” They’ll complete my little section of I-80 days after I no longer have to hazard the Nugget choke.

Evan chose Zora, and Western civilization crashes as one more set of amoral morons proves the rule: money buys happiness.

Hunter isn’t quite sure he gets to move to the new house with the rest of us, or maybe he isn’t sure that Scrappy, the cat, gets to. In either case, he’s being nice to the cat in case it’s the last he sees of her.

I’ll jog this morning. Eat a healthy lunch. Get some sleep. Sleep instead of jogging. Make the bed.

The itching, burning sensation down and to the right of my sternum increases as, once again, some talking head uses the word “when” instead of “if,” and I’d sooner hear Homer say, “doh,” than Rather rave, “today.”