Shit, we got hammered. About 14 inches here. Good, heavy, wet snow. And still at the freezing mark. We did the snow blower thing on the driveway because it's mildly fun to push it around and, after five minutes, I just let it run and stare blankly at the dent on my car like a mental patient. Then my grandfather comes out and I let the heart attack patient push the heave snow plower down half an acre of driveway, battling and raging against 14 inches of 500 pound snow and a quarter ton of angry, rusting metal with three feet of spinning, unshielded blades. Junkyards are fun, too.
Now I'm inside, warm, listening to Rasputina's cover album. Wish You Were Here sounds better than the Floyd version. They fucked up Bad Moon Rising, I think. It's the type of song that lends itself to the Creedence style and rhythm. But Floyd's dark secret is that, down deep, they just aren't that good. They're observant, moody, inspired and angry. But anyone can do the songs. The songs don't have that gentle imprint, loike with CCR, so people copy them and you roll your eyes.
Next up -- watch all the roads get cleared on traffic cameras and bestill my black heart as I prepare for Monday morning. Maybe some Simcity 4.
Also -- fuck me -- season two of Greatest American Hero is write protected! Even piracy fails. So now I'll have to watch those all day. Unless I can plow through the discs with DVD Decrypter. 40% and counting. We'll see. Shrink gagged at 80%.
