It was another late night of printing the newspaper. It took about seven hours to finish up, meaning it was about 11 p.m. as I headed to the car and home.
Yes, I am still having my truck worked on. Once the price tag had reached the five thousand dollar mark, I decided I may as well break the bank and have the repair go through the aging beast with a fine-toothed comb.
At any rate, operating on only four hours of sleep, I managed to do my radio show, which I can’t find on the Internet and now feel compelled to ask about, and I delivered all of my papers. Then I did my best, and without breaking the law, to beat feet back to the radio station for a staff meeting.
Five minutes late, I arrived to learn of its cancellation, and an email dispatched telling me so. An email — I never thought once to check my email when a text is so much more common these days.
I’m surprised no one sent me a fax.