Free To Be Nowhere

Let's - grrrrrr! - talk.

Forgive me now and beat the Yom Kippur rush: I'm in a mood even a fresh coif and a new pair of biodegradable Vera Wang platform flip flops wouldn't fix. Not to worry, Poor Impulsives, we can blame this on a low pressure system rushing in from out west, where the deer and the antelope play canasta. As you know, I'm not much of a joiner where no solder is to be found, so you'll be as shocked as I was to learn that the local committee ladies who are fully committed to having committees and have never met me have asked me to join them in their eco-friendly bloodless conquest of the tiny town's miserably stocked ExtortionMart, by which I mean a meeting on Monday with the store's new manager. Apparently, I drove away the last manager with my insistence that recycled paper products were a perfectly rational idea. Anyway, my sister Anya, who shall hereafter be refered to as "Co-defendant," will arm me with sock puppets and a can of Spam, which in vegetarian means: "Them's fightin' words."

While I ponder this turn of events and that twist of sinus medication, feel free to ponder a lovely, wonderful song by Khadja Nin called Sina Mali, Sina Deni, a translated cover of a Stevie Wonder song in a language you don't speak, and none of that should put you off. Please press play.