This morning I was listening to WRUV, UVM's college radio, and the highly unawake deejay suddenly announced that the station would be going off the air for approximately five minutes, in order to switch from their main transmitter to the backup one. This because, DJ Stoney explained, there was apparently some problem with the main transmitter interfering with the hospital's radio transmissions or somethin'. He was a little unclear on what exactly was going on. He was, in fact, a little unclear in general.

But as a listener, I was kind of flummoxed because hey, sorry that the hospital is harshing your buzz, but if that particular hospital managed to notice that there was a problem AND figure out what was causing it AND find someone who could make a decisions about what should be done about it, then the odds are pretty good that the "interference" was really fucking bad, to the tune of causing pacemakers to fly across the room and slam into the wall, much to the dismay of their former owners. Or your obscure folk music classics were microwaving babies in the NICU. Seriously, it would have to be that obvious in order for those people to call you, so try not to feel too inconvenienced.

The kicker was that when the station came back on, this guy's show suddenly consisted solely of experimental metal and whining. I'm all for non-corporate radio and its ability to expose you to sounds you wouldn't normally hear, but come on. Falling over in the studio and then releasing it as a demo? I just don't get it. Maybe I'm too old.

Getting older is not necessarily a bad thing, especially considering the alternative. The other day, for instance, I was in the campus library, trying to pick up an inter-library loan book (At Wick's End by Tim Myers. I'm a sucker for a bad pun). And I say trying, because the student working checkout at Circulation was deeply involved in a conversation with one of his housemates, who had stopped by to hash out their living arrangements. These were the type of arrangements I'm sure most of you are familiar with: one apartment, a rotating cast of roughly four to seven people, and a fight to the death over how to split the rent. Awesome. And in this case the rotating cast included people named (so not kidding) Mellow, Damien and Puff.

And Puff is not paying his share of the rent, which is pissing off Mellow and his girlfriend, who are paying for the sofa bed, and sometimes utilities, while Damien has told someone (I forgot their name, sorry, it was something unjournalworthy) that they could take over his lease and boy is Puff not happy. Oh y'all it was complicated. I just stood there listening unabashedly, not even caring that I'm not being helped, because this housing drama is Shakespearean in scope and complexity and it's making me more and more thankful that I only share a house with El Yo and eleventy rabbits.

Seriously. Five rabbits may as well be eleventy when only two of them get along reliably, and even then their relationship causes angst for the others. But that's another entry.