Girl, Interrupted

Faster than you can sprint down the stupid hallway because you were in the stupid bathroom when the stupid CD player started to skip on the stupid first song of the stupid day, here are yesterday's playlists.

Log for first half of Rocktober 5th, 2006 show

Log for second half of Rocktober 5th, 2006 show



Man, there is NOTHING that will make you feel more helpless than just having begun to urinate when your CD player decides it can't handle a CD. That CD player, of course, is allll the way down the hallway, about a city block away, in the air studio. You can hear what's going out over the air in the bathrooms, though. Isn't that nice? Sure it is. RIGHT UP UNTIL YOU HAVE TO SIT THERE, URINATING, AS YOUR SONG SKIPS ITSELF TO DEATH. It is so irritating. I can imagine that if I were driving to work and heard that CD skipping for the solid 60 or 70 seconds that it did before I could get to it, I'd just turn the station. And then I'd laugh. With disdain. Because I'd be mocking that sadsack DJ who was trying to use the rest room while her CD fell apart. She's such a chump.

In other news, I saw planes landing a few times as I drove to work this week. Neato! I was at the apex of the bridge and looked to the left to see big airliners landing with little puffs of smoke squeaking out from under their wheels.

That reminds me of a story. In high school, I got to drive my father's super fly awesome 1982 Toyota Corolla-Tercel. (Yes, it was called both, because it was the first Corolla-body Toyota to have front-wheel-drive [normally, only the Tercels had that].) I loved that car and got to drive it frequently, so I really considered it my car. My father had given my brother and me The Speech, though. The Speech let us know that accidents were NOT ALLOWED and that we could NOT AFFORD to have our auto insurance RATES HIKED. He was VERY SERIOUS about this.

One day, I pulled into a parking space and verrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry gently tapped another car. I was startled, but not too concerned, as even I, an inexperienced driver, could tell that it was a minor tap that could have caused no damage. I reparked, got out of the car, and walked around to check the other car as a just-in-case maneuver. It looked like a plane had landed on it. It was smashed. I looked, incredulous, at my own car, expecting to see nothing but a wheel on the passenger side. It was perfectly unflawed. How was this possible? In lieu of solving the riddle, I chose to cry hysterically.

I went into school, hiccoughed my way into the principal's office, and explained what I'd done. To add insult to the other car's injury, it had no parking permit, which the high school required. So, not only had I damaged a student's car, but I was now ALSO getting him or her into trouble for parking without a permit. Nice going, Sarah. You're on the easy street to popularity now, eh kid?

It turns out that the car belonged to a sweet girl named Brenda, with whom I'd been fairly friendly since grade school. She was called to the office and saw my red, puckered, tear-stained, fist of a face and I sputteringly explained to her that I'd hit her car. We walked out with a nice, soothing woman from the school office. As we approached Brenda's mangled car, Brenda cheerfully asked, "where did you hit it?"

I stared. "Huh? Well, right THERE. Right where - well, THERE." (It pretty much looked like THIS, but to me, it looked more like THIS.) I couldn't believe she wasn't hysterical. Again, I just stared. Brenda spoke: "Sarah, my brother wrecked this car like, last week, on the guard rail. If you hit it at all, you hit it where he'd already destroyed it. No problem. Everything's fine." Who doesn't love Brenda? NO ONE. *Hearts for Eyes*