Pitchfork

This weekend is the Pitchfork Music Festival.

I'm looking forward to standing in the heat with Chicago's finest hipsters listening to the latest and greatest in indie music.

This weekend is always a good indicator that I am midway through the summer. It is a staple of my last four summers and I appreciate it.

My crazy landlady cornered me to tell me she is having a yard sale and if I wanted to put anything in it I needed to do it by 7am on Saturday morning.

I just have one question... WHY DOES SHE WANT TO INCLUDE ME IN HER YARD SALE!?

I don't understand her for a second. I mean, it occurs to me that I do have a couple things I would like to sell and she is one of these people who regularly has yard sales and so she gets a good turn out from the hardcore yard sale people. I can't imagine I'll wake up by 7am, but we'll see.

I'm frustrated right now because my mother left me a voice message last night and I didn't listen to it, because I hate listening to voice mail lately. I hate talking on the phone lately. Maybe it is in general protest to my iPhone's delinquency, but the phone is becoming especially hard to me to spend time with. Anyway, I didn't get to the message until this morning and it sounded quite casual... but then it got weird.

"Daviiiiinnnn. This is mother. I just hadn't talked to you in a while and wondered how you are doing. We were in the ER most of the day today because your father hurt his hand on the lawnmower. I think he'll be alright. The Dr's said he didn't break any bones.... so, ok, well I'll talk to you later. I love you."

!?
!?

I've been trying to call all morning, but of course something is going on with their phone. I'm sure he is fine. My father always hurts himself with the lawnmower. Seriously. I remember numerous ER visits having to do with a lawnmower or a tractor, but I am still frustrated at myself for not listening last night.

Let this be a lesson to me.