Minor Status Update

It's been along, eventful week.

Inventory week, which means putting ducks in a row all in the name of not getting yelled at every other day for the next six months.

There was Jeopardy testing, and your old pal Tommy might end up on syndicated TV, looking to make a fool of himself in front of millions.

And there was general insomnia, which was a by product of the two previously mentioned items.

I'm goofy tired.  Hence:

A month or so ago, the local Drive-In Movie Theater, in an effort to upgrade projection equipment and move into the Digital Age, was selling season passes.  I, looking to keep a cool little business open, if only to assuage my overblown sense of nostalgia, thought this was a great idea.  I went in with the Southern Martyr to purchase a pass.  It went a few weeks with no response.  A concern noted in correspondence with the theater.  I'd actually decided to go pick up passes in person, rather than trying again with the SASE method I've not used since the early 1990's.

Well, I checked my mail today.

I got my pass in the mail, in an envelope addressed by my own hand.

My first reaction, however, was not that I'd gotten my tickets.

It's that somehow, I'd accidentally mailed the letter to myself, instead of the theater.

Brain no thing so good.

Loopy tired.

Keep it out of your butts, campers.  And I'll see you at the Drive-In.