Slow day, so I’m sitting here listening to the audio feed of OLN’s Tour de France coverage. Not all that dynamic. “The wind is really playing havoc with the race right now.” That doesn’t paint much of a picture for me. Much like my attempts to listen to the BBC’s Euro ’04 coverage a couple weeks back, anytime there’s real action, the feed breaks and goes into Buffering mode. Delicious.
We stopped into Babies R Us briefly last night, and it’s the first time I’ve been there and not heard a Kenny Loggins song. I swear, last time we were in there, when we were putting our registry into the system, I heard two different Loggins songs in 45 minutes. And it’s not like they were the good songs, like “I’m All Right” or “Danger Zone”. It was that pappy sappy crap from the late 70s. I don’t expect cutting edge music at a store that caters to the parents of babies. You can’t go blasting out the latest modern rock hits while newborns are already slobbering on themselves. But a little less Loggins wouldn’t hurt anyone.
In response to Stacey’s query yesterday, the beer she was so enamored with is Sam Adams’ Summer Ale. It’s a similar brew to Boulevard’s Zon, so that’s worth checking out too. When I offered her a Summer Ale, she had reached the ideal state of inebriation: the state where everything is fantastic, like you’re four years old and it’s Christmas morning. “This beer has everything I like. If I had to pick a beer for me, this would be it,” stated Stace. Damn, we have yet to purchase a camcorder, otherwise I could have taped her heart felt testimonial and got us some free beer or something.
As for the chickens, she told the story well. We were watching this crazy beagle that had just raced across a busy street to tear across the Hebert estate, when Stace said, “Are those chickens over there?” What she said didn’t register at first, since why would there be chickens in the suburbs, right? She said it again a few moments later, and I looked up to try to see what she was talking about. All I could see were yards, shrubbery, and trees. No chickens. No other wildlife that could be confused with chickens. “How many has she had today?” I wondered. Five minutes later, I glance across the road and there are six or seven chickens wandering around. So much for my attempts to convince you I live in swanky, modern suburbs. We’ve got a corn field across the road from our neighborhood and chickens running freely through major thoroughfares. Ain’t that America?