NP: John Cage, 4'33" (dance mix)

You know, if the only cosmic comeuppance I get for all the good that's come my way this week is wiping out and bashing the holy hell out of my hip and shoulder, I think I can live with that. Of course, I say that now. We'll see how it feels tomorrow morning. Or later this morning. Whatever. Buy stock in Aleve, is all I'm sayin'.

Let this be a lesson to you young folk out there, with your hippin' and your hoppin' and your bippin' and your boppin'. Running, turf shoes, tiled floors and water DO NOT mix. Have I mentioned, ow? Right now it's hard to imagine that I actually played a game of soccer after the spill. Missed a sitter that would have tied the game, too, but Doug coughed up an own goal, so no goat on me, nosirree.

The surreal part of the evening, however, was on the drive home. I was taking in my newly acquired Stones comp, and as I approached the tollbooth on the inbound Kennedy (or on whichever directional branch of the Tollway right before it becomes the Kennedy), the dulcet tones of Mick, Keith and Co. were working through "Sympathy For The Devil." I did not have exact change, so a trip through the manual lane was in order. Of the two, I went left, handed my dollar bill to the attendant, and saw that his name was Jesus.

I'm riding with the devil, and I passed Jesus. I'm not quite sure what to make of that.