You have to admit, they’ve got moxie—two teenagers arrested in attempt to extort from myspace.com. The only problem with their plan is that it was stupid, which is not something that an 18- and a 19-year-old can be expected to account for. Especially, if you will forgive me, where Myspace is an influence.

We have had a pleasant (if impromptu) Memorial Day Weekend vacation here at the Times, and so I apologize if you have been wondering where the song was Friday and Monday. I blame the military-industrial complex. For this, and many other things.

As for memorials themselves, several of the Interns (none of whom, I would like to note, have attempted, at least with any success, to blackmail a major corporation while under my employ) have been playing Call of Duty on their Playstation 2, in what they have loosely described as an homage to half-remembered uncles and grandfathers. Touching, from them.

Bipedal and busted—a fraudster claiming to be paraplegic leapt from her wheelchair and ran from police. You can run, but you can’t hide the fact that you can run.

On the way in to the office, I was accosted by a vagrant claiming to be the reincarnation of John Lennon. The Interns, ever credulous, invited him in and began asking him various questions vis-a-vis Beatlemania and what the hell, exactly, Paul McCartney thinks he’s doing—and despite the fact that our spiritually-recycled guest answered largely in grunts, I have to thank him. He did lay down some nice Lennon-esque harmonies for today’s track, and even nailed them on the first take.

The bigger they are, &c—cooling tower at Trojan nuclear power plant successfully imploded.

Needless to say, the Interns will simply not stop the “Trojan” jokes. If I hear one more weak jest about erect towers I may snap.

And a hello to the folks reading Making Light.

Leave no Teamster unturned—the FBI is searching a Michigan farm for Hoffa’s body. It’s only been thirty-odd years since the former Teamster honcho disappeared, after all…

In the office, we are all looking forward to the weekend. I have some crosswords to catch up on—and some scotch—in the Intern-free comfort of my own home; and the Interns themselves are by and large already celebrating the weekend, judging by the amount of work they’ve managed not to get done today.

I should not be too harsh, though; they are still shaken by the disappearance of Dalton in the wilds of Montana. Some of the more ambitious among them—Kaitlin, for example, who has earned something better than two-fifths of an MBA in the last six years—have even pledged to form up a search party for him. Will they locate him in the next thirty years? I frankly no longer care.

Don’t forget your umbrella—it’s flooding in New England. When it rains, as they say, it pours.

Here in Portland, we’re seeing the complement: it has been well over 90 degress Fahrenheit for two days now, and their is no relief in sight. The Interns have been congregating in the breakroom, taking turns standing in pairs before the open refrigerator door. I would do something about it, but I am stuck to my chair.

Enjoy the song. Given the heat, we couldn’t really muster anything up-tempo, but I feel Reginald played some rather nice guitar, considering his heat-stroke and the fact that he is, when not delirious and febrile, primarily a clarinetist.

Everything is bigger there—Texas will get the larget wind-energy farm in the US. Despite debates over the environmental impact of the technology in general—and of the planned windfarm in particular—the project is a progressive step for a state associated with crude oil.

And today’s song is a progressive step for Interns with poor time-management skills—I do not think I have ever seen them work so bloody quickly, and it shows. Still, though—catchy.

The call is coming from inside the house—NSA has built an exhaustive database of US phone records. President Bush responded unusually quickly to the news, declaring in a press conference that calls were not being listened to, simply tracked. Cold comfort to privacy advocates.

Former NSA director Michael Hayden’s recent nomination as director of the CIA is suddenly rather awkward.

On a more personal note, I am glad to be back, and I am never taking the Interns on a field trip ever again. My attorney and my psychotherapist have agreed that I should not go into details, but let me say this: there is no such thing as “nature’s toiletpaper”, and anyone who says otherwise is fired.

Running late? Alliterate! Soda czars ceasing sales to schools! In, well, a couple of years. And not diet soda. Or sports drinks. Or juice products. All of which have seen rising sales while traditional high-calorie soda products have been declining.

And there’s that issue of mounting legal pressure from various states.

Speaking of states, we at The Aural Times are heading, en masse, to Montana for a few days—which means, of course, renting a bus, packing in the Interns, and reminding them every five minutes (1) to sit down, (2) to shut up, and (3) that no, we are not there yet.

We may find a way to provide updates from the road—I have it on good authority that portions of the Big Sky state are now equipped with electrical power—but if you do not see an update on Monday, or even Wednesday, do not be alarmed. We are most likely not lying dead at the bottom of a cliff, amidst the smoldering wreakage of a mangled, cliff-overridden Bluebird bus, but rather merely enjoying the wilderness.

I just wish Dalton would stop talking about “getting back to nature.”

When Jeff Goldblum isn’t available, you talk to Mick Jagger. And, at press time, Jagger has shot his scenes. This is real, people.

Continuing a trend begun last Wednesday, today’s song is brought to you again by a Field Correspondent: David Miller, our Entertainment department. David Miller—as his memoirs state—was born naked and screaming and has remained as such well into adulthood. He has already made fast friends with our token nudist Intern, Dalton.

Time to break out the ten-speed—US Energy Secretary Samuel Bodman sees no relief in gas shortage for several years.

As it happens, The Aural Times is less affected by the current gas price spike than businesses elsewhere in the nation—for one thing, we have an excellent transit system in Portland, and for another, The Interns often reduce their dependecy on fuel-based transit further by passing out overnight in the office washroom.