Sometimes when I'm dancing through the aisles of the grocery store, oblivious to the world in my iPod-induced haze, an old lyric I've heard a million times will suddenly cut through the fog and present itself in stunning clarity. Tonight, there were two:
"All that professional lipstick
pressed into an amateur kiss"
Elvis Costello, Starting to Come to Me
"Things are getting weirder at the speed of light,
Nightmare girl"
Aimee Mann, Nightmare Girl
By the way (Nancy), I refuse to get sucked into the National League Championship Series. Though I did just watch Beltran steal all the way home, something I haven't seen in a very long time. But no, I'm going to bed tonight, dammit!
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