I realized this past Monday that I have no idea how much a stamp costs. I had two cards to send out, a sheet of Yoda 41-cent stamps, a sheet of “Forever” stamps and no clue what to put on the envelope.
I can’t recall the last time I actually dropped a letter in the mail (it’s been at least two months), and with the Post Office raising their prices almost as frequently as gas stations, it can be a bit difficult to remember the latest information on stamps.
I was fairly certain the 41-centers were outdated, but I also thought there stood a decent chance the price was now up to 43 cents. Turns out, stamps currently cost 42 cents. At least I think they do. My cards have yet to be returned, so I’m sticking with the 42 mark for now.
On a completely unrelated note, I’ve been re-watching Lost on DVD, and I’m now up to Season Three. One thing keeps nagging at me as I watch this show about a group of people trapped on an island – they must really, really stink. And this would be a stink beyond the normal B.O. stench, mind you. They’re digging, building, running for their lives and doing all sorts of things that work up a good sweat. They have grime coating their skin. Their clothes are in tatters. They are caked with blood.
Yet some of them are having sex. How? Let’s not forget that they are likely not brushing their teeth on a regular basis (and I’m completely ruling out any chance of them flossing), so something as relatively tame as kissing would be problematic.
These are two of the better-looking Lost characters, but notice are filthy they are.
Regular viewers will no doubt argue that cleaning supplies were, at one time, located in The Hatch, but not every Lostie had easy access to these toiletries. My only reasonable theory is that at a certain point, everyone just got accustomed to the odor and quit noticing it.
One last unrelated comment: I am now officially excited for next weekend’s Lollapalooza. My schedule is set (really, as long as I see The Black Keys, Radiohead, Kanye West and Wilco, I’ll be happy), and I’m getting a strong craving for wings and pizza (Excelsior, here we come).
A couple of months ago I began speculating that Barack Obama would make an appearance, given that he’s a Chicago guy and there are two major Chicago acts (Wilco, Kanye) headlining. Reports are now surfacing that the presumptive Democratic presidential nominee will indeed introduce one of the bands, so that’s helping increase the excitement. The only other presidential nominee I’ve ever been around was Bob Dole in 1996, and Obama seems slightly more charismatic.
I’m also enjoying all the Radiohead-fueled speculation. Radiohead fanatics (Radioheadheads?) are saying this could be the band’s best show ever, so it would be a bit cool to be part of that. Personally, I’m predicting they whip out a Prince cover (please let it be “Purple Rain”) to counter-balance Prince playing “Creep” at another festival earlier this year. There’s a very good chance I might die if that happens, although there’s probably as equally good of a chance at my death just from being in the vicinity of Rage Against the Machine. I’m truly scared at the prospect of getting trampled as the machines are raged against, even though I’ll be about a mile away across the park watching a far more peaceful Wilco show. A Rage-induced melee, though, could take over the entire festival, leaving me beaten, battered and, more importantly, angry that I can’t eat another delicious Lollapalooza rib sandwich.