I check my work voice-mail and find very amused messages. Because I have a column in today saying Pamela Anderson was married to Chris Rock, not Kid Rock. Some days -- in this case, yesterday -- I'm just not safe around a keyboard.
At least, I think so ...
I'm trying to regain my equlibrium about this glitch, but this one is going to drive me crazy all day. When I do things like double- and triple-check telecast times for reruns of "The War," or read multiple stories about the death of a sleazy entrepreneur to try to get details right, and then just have a gigantic brain burp, well ... I know, it's only human. I prefer to be not quite human.*
I'd go home and pull the covers over my head, only they're putting on a new roof.
*Those movies were very big around my house when little feet were pattering. All honor to Jay Underwood. Or was that John Underwood?
I told you this was going to drive me crazy.
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