You can get a lot done on the train, if you concentrate: witness my PowerPoint of the lead-off song from Wilco's 2002 CD Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. This, of course, is in no way original as others have even reduced songs to HTML ordered lists, let alone the rage for doing this in PowerPoint. (You'll have to search for the PowerPoint and HTML song reductions yourself tonight, however, since I have plans--big plans--for my night and am not going to spend the 3 minutes looking on Google for it. ) But I was moved by the desperate love the song seems to address and my own lack thereof. (Try to figure that sentence out, I dare you.)

I would link up the MP3 file and put that in a full-blown movie for the little show, but they would probably try to sue my ass. Wilco guy needs the rehab money, afterall.

The Library of Congress's American Memory is still the hot-diggitiest thing out there.

Witness:

or

or

Doesn't get much better than that, does it? Even better, they are free for non-commercial use as long as you give them proper credit (q.v. the ALT tag on the pictures.)

I got home today and the temperature was near-perfect for being outside. I broke out the lawn chair, and handy hand-me-down now-outside coffee table and sat myself down for a nice read of the Best of Utah in City Weekly.

I wasn't reading it with a mind for writing about it, so this is not a post on a criticism of the City Weekly and their usually smart-ass-inspired winners (which endears them to me), since I was just enjoying sitting outside in the sun in the side yard with my nice view of Mount Olympus and the red sprouts of peonies coming up through the lawn and the dandelion blossoms at my feet. The sky was clear--no clouds--no discernible pollution: it is just big and wide and blue.

The hedges in my little bit of suburban heaven are finally sprouting. I'm going to let them grow another foot before I try to trim them. I find my privacy outside here in subwambalambaland in need of defense. Sometimes I feel prying eyes on me since I am usually the only grownup visible on the street or in the yard or on the porch aside from the neighbors who had the Kerry/Edwards sign. They are, sadly, moving to Chicago.

Other neighbors seem to rush to their vehicles like it is the only protection from non-car heathens like me. I'm sure I'd baffle them by saying "I don't have a car and I don't care."

"But how do you get around?!" I can here them caterwaul.

"Very well, thank you," I might reply with a haughty smile.

I say that because I'm thinking of compromising my non-car status. I'm thinking of buying a big-old gas-guzzling F250 (did I ever tell you I had a girl friend in highschool who had a F250. It was blue and she was hot. She also played the trombone) and plastering it with various ironic environmental bumper stickers with a personalized license plate: "PEAK OIL."

Meh.