|that's not my bag, baby. honest.| While in the drive-thru queue at Wendy's, I realized that I had been driving around town with my mom's Barry Manilow CD face up on the dashboard. No wonder that hottie in the Mustang refused to look at me -- hahhhhhh.
We also have a tornado watch, and it's lookin' pretty stormy out. Normally I don't pay attention to those, because what are the chances of one actually touching down? But ever since DP's tornado fiasco that passed through like 6 houses down from where he lived, I'm a little bit more wary.
In an event of a tornado, I think I would calmly proceed to the basement and shit my pants. I've never been in one. I've heard that it sounds like a train passing through one's house. I've had dreams about tornadoes, and they weren't the piffy F1 ones, I'm talking monstro-destructive F5-scale shitters. In those dreams, I'd have my face right up by the window (uh, yeah, not so smart) and I'd be watching the tornado come barreling through. Sometimes it would pass through us and it would shake our house like we were a crouton in them McSalads (you know what I'm talkin' bout). Other times it would narrowly graze our house, and it would knock down like one tree off our yard. Then I'd come out and think, Well that wasn't so bad.
...but yeah, Barry Manilow. He came to Manila once, he performed at this outdoor venue like 2 feet from my house, and we could hear him singing from our driveway. With the clear night and the balmy wind, his voice carried well, and I'm not ashamed to say that he sounded good. Come on, the man writes the songs that make the whole world sing. Right?