Good morning. It's 6:51 MST at the top of beautiful Hill A.F.B., Utah. The sky is finally brightening a bit, and the clouds are looking like someone took some quilt batting and stapled it to the ceiling (I wrote this part to tick off George Carlin, who expressed a deep aversion for descriptions of clouds in an essay in his Brain Droppings).

It occured to me yesterday that as I observed an unusual, uh, oblong white... thingy, whatever, sticking up into the air that I may well be working not much further than about a mile from a working ICBM silo. I want to go home.

Yyou know, I always used to hate it when I'd call friends to talk for a while, and they'd be too busy to be talk. You know, like dinner time, or something. Last night I got a call from a very dear friend and... I was having dinner. I wanted to talk, but I also needed to spend time with my wife and child. I so much more need to be with my son who has taken to biting me. I guess. He also often hits. One or the other might be a problem, but together... I'll have to look that up.

She sounded like she wanted very much just to socialize. Life being what it is, I can imagine. Maybe I'll give her a call tonight. Around dinner time.

Hard to get too enthusiastic about the job at the moment.

It's quiet, though. I actually have time to post something.