Everything Is Broken

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There's a great Bob Dylan song by that name...

...forget the record, but Bob sings the hell out of it.

As referenced here last week the Camp is in disrepair.

Then the basement gets flooded.

Floods are fun because of the stink.

Everyone is taking a turn running the shampooer.

Then I get in my car and flip over to E-Street radio.

"Either I went deaf or my radio fuse is blown," I announced.

I have as much chance of changing a blown fuse as I do of playing left field for the Yankees next year.

Now it matches the air conditioner.

And let's not even bring up the weed whacker.

I went looking for it in the garage.

Came up empty.

"Where is our weed whacker?" I asked.

"I think my father borrowed it," Kathy said.

"Can we get it back?"

The next day I inquired.

"Funny story," Kathy said. "It's not there. And when I asked my father about it he wondered where his was. It turns out his has been in the back of my car for about a month."

"Do we have one I can use?"

"Nope. He needed his back. He doesn't have ours. We'll borrow his when he's done."

I really feel like listening to the Dylan turn:

"Everything is Broken."

But I can't.

Anyone know how to find the fuse box?


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