I have officially boarded Howard Hughes' The Unexplained train.
I downloaded massive amounts of podcast shows from his website.
http://theunexplained.tv/Between Howard, The General's Fret Files, and Knapp's monthly show, I'm maxed out. I could absorb an occasional Radio Train Wreck, or extra Knapp appearances, but that's it. That's all she wrote. It's Katy bar the door. The train has left the station. Compass and a secret map. You have reached Sanctuary. The rabbit hutch is latched. Podcast file chickens have come home to roost. Serpent swallowed the egg and rolled with a lump. Welcome to the Satellite of Love.
I have work to do. Places to go. People to see. Books to read. Life to live. And I have to eat at some point. I can listen to only so much.
I'm satisfied.
What I'm trying to say is, thank God Art quit. Else I wouldn't have time to sleep.
Howard Hughes is a hydrogen peroxide-drenched Q-tip for waxed up ears.
(HH, I will ring when I'm in the vicinity, and meet you at The Red Lion with a briefcase of ufology. Clue:
The Goblin Universe would be a good pub name, right? Right as Charles Dickens wearing a hat in a Venusian designed underground dome city, I would say. P.S. I'm bringing Shaver's unpublished notes regarding the link between Tibet and the caves of C______ C___ Mountain in Arkansas.)

Cam out.