NP: Radiohead, Hail to the Thief (CD)

Now I know why singers tend not to even try to sing when they're suffering from some form of laryngitis. I'm still a bit hoarse after screaming my lungs out in a futile effort to help the Fire win in L.A. on Sunday, but soldiered on last night anyway, opting to go heavy on the Everlast catalog. My efforts met with mixed results, if by "met with mixed results," I mean "mostly sucked." It had been way too long since I had even tried singing "Black Jesus," so there was no way in hell I was going to get the lyrics right. Note to self: 12-point type is not big enough for lyric sheets.

I have to reprint all those anyway, as the big blue book was in the backpack that was liberated from my car on Friday. Mostly all of the fallout from the break-in is landing well below my deductibles, so I'm just going to have to suck it up. The claims agent for my car insurance confused me, though, as she apologized for not finding more than $500 worth of damage to fix. I'm all for saving money, but if I have to spend half a grand in order to save, I'd just as soon just spend half of that and call it a day.

Continuing to deal with that, along with the brief L.A. jaunt and the heartbreak accompanying it in the MLS Cup Final, has made for a majorly disoriented week. I am in no groove to speak of. I am grooveless. Heck, I barely know what day it is. My musical situation continues to swirl and fluctuate, occasionally defying all logic in the process. Regular day job prospects are not as sunny as they seemed a few short weeks ago. It's odd how that works.

There was other stuff, but it suddenly seems either entirely trivial (and to be too trivial for this space is saying a lot) or just not worth bothering with. Maybe I'm just struggling to wrap my head around how I need to get into a groove in order to get out of a funk. My musical metaphors are getting all arhythmic on me. I hate it when that happens.