I've spent the past week trying to get my ducks in a row business-wise, an endeavor I expect to last at least through the weekend. Creative work has been pushed to the side as usual, though I have written a couple of tunes in between salt mine shifts so at least there's something intangible to point to.
I've gotten into the habit of pulling out the IPod for an hour or so every evening although, as is usually the case when I listen to music, I seem to be stuck mostly on two records. Burning a hole in my consciousness at the moment are the last two Palomar releases, which I'll tell you all about as soon as I track down a copy of their first album and listen to it a few hundred times.
Though the IPod and a stack of books that could kill a man if toppled keep me plenty occupied in the evening hours, sometimes the brain wants to wallow in cotton candy and fudgesicles for a while, which usually means either the Food Network or baseball. Last night it was an almost come-from-behind victory by the red-hot Indians over the hated Red Sox. Boston's Keith Foulke looked terrible; the hitters were all over him with greedy glints in their eyes, as if Foulke were tipping his pitches telepathically. The Indians couldn't quite manage to pull off a W, but they're looking like a team that's well-poised for 4-5 year dynasty in the AL Central, starting around next season.
Oh yeah, I really do think Foulke's tipping his pitches. Just not through the power of his mind.