It's sweet, dirty New Year's Eve and, yeah yeah, YEAH FUCKIN YEAH I'm in Iowa.
I only wish I'd started a travel journal, as airport magazines and Eurosuits stimulate my brain and make me smart and interesting all over again. Downtown Ames has stolen my heart with its bicycle shops and buffalo head bars.
Do you know what the message board kids did? They all each picked out two songs and sent them to one guy, one point guy in Idaho and he assembled them onto three CDs which have been my constant companions on the less-loud jets. In fact, as I made myself a nice fried egg sandwich after my shower in Lucky's apartment, I fired up disc 3 for a truly glorious grey midwestern morning. Hash browns not home fries? Well, we'll just see about that. As Mr. Ricky Martin once said, Viva la Musica.
Baseball thoughts this morning: I had a dream I was on a charter bus and Kyle Farnsworth was in front of me with still-wet hair. And many other passengers were AAA level Minnesota Twins, as in, Rah-Rah-Rochester.
Beyond that, Kevin Millar is broken hearted, Texas blew it all over Millwood, and I'll surely be running into Mark Bellhorn in Arizona.
So long, '05. Is there a more depressing holiday than this?