As the news once again careens across the path of this almanac in the form of Scott Brown's unlikely victory over Martha Coakley (whose robo-calls from Bill and Barack and Vicky and Ted if she could have, began sounding more and more tense, as if she were trapped in a room with closing walls), I ask word once again to save normal, because what has happened here in Massachusetts is so bizarre that normal must be in serious trouble. I want Lassie to find normal. Bring her back, girl. She must be trapped in the old mineshaft on the edge of town. I warned normal not to play around there. But Lassie looks confused. Normal's fine. Normal's just being her normal weird self. Well, hell, go save Timmy then. Save someone.
It's National Disc Jockey Day (I announce, peevishly, like a disc jockey with a bad hangover). How about a little music?
Martha, my dear, though I spend my days in conversation, please, remember me...
Go Lassie - go save normal. My thoughts exactly.
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