station identification

Egads. Living in a work bubble is not good for general communication. I always wondered, while in San Francisco, how scores of neighbors who seemed to have called the city home for generations could still bumble about with just a couple English words. This would now be me. Put on the spot last night by a gaggle of incredibly diligent, dashing Europeans who were speaking German together as a lark for the evening (a Dutchman, a Czech woman and I think? an American who regarded me quizzically as the sad, linguistically lame sort I am) I managed to eat my tongue (twice) while describing the weather and my sad occupation. Even the basics were sweat-inducing. I apparently have gone hermit and have forgotten that people outside (outside? where is that again?) speak German. The nerve!

But I have reason for the bunker mentality, no? (The bubble mentality. I have no grenades. I am not at war with my surroundings, unless they shoot first. Then again, I should really get on with those taxes...) Financial markets and Tibet on fire. It snowed yesterday. Did the day before, too. While the sky was blue. Which gave the whole scene a pallid, golden, nuclear-winter sort of feel. I've got two pairs of socks on, a scarf wrapped around my woolly-sweatered neck and a blanket draped sanatorium-style around my legs with the window open as by gods, I will get some Vitamin D even if I can't leave this damn laptop for the next three months. Or so.

And that was the local station identification. Stand by for a small, high pitched tweet to linger through the frozen Easter holiday.