Egg Head.

So. I seem to be the David Letterman of the blogosphere, as far as the late night thing goes, mind you. Pitch black, city sleeps. I just like that a lot, as the hectic and noisy street life turns into some peaceful sleeping creature, with the occasional siren downstairs passing from left to right (well, some of them actually passing from right to left, you know). In the background, I'm connected to Soma FM, an internet radio station with a variety of channels to please the listener off the beaten track, being delivered nice groove salad through a tiny telephone wire. Loads of zeroes and ones being put together and converted into sound. I could always switch channels to see (or hear, in this particular case) what's on David Byrne's office playlist. Which turns out to be some old fashioned funk stuff dribbling along. I wouldn't even try to motivate my employees with such... inconsequential whatsit if I was him. But I ain't, so I let him do his thang and change to Pig Radio. What's in a name. If you could hear what I'm hearing, you wouldn't believe it, so I'm involuntaryly switching to Sing Sing Radio. That's better, Rudeboy! Where was I? The sleeping city... everybody's sleeping, except me of course. But I've lost what I was going to say... write. So I have to come up with something, but what? All of a sudden, I am lost in the city of sleepers... maybe it's the Chablis' side effect. I don't care, it's too late already. Don't even bother to read this... Good night everybody!