‘An act of God’

The limb‘s on me, the insurance company says. (I inquired because it appears that I now have a leak in the ceiling in, curiously, the exact spot where that bastard hit the roof.) Just because it fell from a neighbor’s tree doesn’t make the neighbor responsible, seeing as how it was “an act of God” and all. Bokay. So begins my quest to find a roofer who will either come in way under my deductible or slightly above it. Homeowner roulette, round one! Whee!

I guess I shouldn’t bitch. People down in Yazoo City were killed, for God’s sake. Half a dozen crumpled shingles pale in comparison.

My aunt and uncle’s property down in Decatur County was hit, I’m told. My aunt, once the storm had blown over, chronicled the whole affair on Facebook, which is how I was able to keep up with it (welcome to 2010). There’s even video (not hers, but still really interesting). My family has lived through so many tornadoes and bouts with ornery straight-line winds that you’d think we’d be used to it. But every time, it’s uniquely terrifying. This time it scattered my aunt and uncle’s collection of port-a-potties (they own a business) throughout their pasture. I’m really hoping to see a picture of that before all is said and done.

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I reacquainted myself with I-40 Sunday to spend some time with Kristin and Lonnie and Amber, who was in town for the marathon. Lonnie makes a mean steak. And he makes a mean batch of ice cream, which just floors me. Monday I spent some time with Lesley and finally got to meet Cecilia, who was pretty chill and let me hold her without freaking out. Don’t tell Chris, but I think Cecilia is basically Lesley’s clone. I decided to stay in town long enough to go to the Preds-vs.-Blackhawks playoff game six — my first hockey game ever. Chris lent me his lucky jersey. Which means, obviously, that the Preds lost. But shit, I had a great time screaming ridiculous crap at the ice three thousand feet below and booty dancing to the music with Amber. Major props to her dad for the tickets; David Bryant is responsible for pretty much all of my Nashville sporting experiences as well as my first Bonnaroo tent experience.

I decided not to chance trying to sneak the 50D in, so I didn’t get any good photos. I did get some video, however. Check out this rude energy after the Predators scored a goal:

What happens when the Nashville Predators score from Lindsey Turner on Vimeo.

The first period packed the most action and all but one of the goals for the game. I’ll be honest, I don’t know a damn thing about hockey but I could tell the Predators were out-skilled, especially on offense. They reminded me of what a middle-school basketball team looks like in action. All flailing and little actual meaningful contact with the ball (puck). There were no fights, I am sad to report, although there was plenty of chest puffing and near-fighting, which inspired me to scream “KISSSS HIMMM!!!!” at the top of my lungs. Look, people, you can’t take me places.

The loss sure did suck but how encouraging to see the Preds make it into the playoffs for the first time. That paves the way for more playoff action in the future. And you bet your ass I’ll be back to a game. Nasty fans with rude chants? CANADA, DID YOU MAKE THIS GAME FOR ME?

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Beale Street Music Festival is this weekend. For the first time in a couple of years, I won’t be covering it for the paper every night. Just Sunday. Yes, I’m disappointed. But we’ve had lots of layoffs since last year, so we’re super stretched in my department, and there’s no way I can get out of the office Friday and Saturday. Welcome to the brave new world of a night desk run by 15 people. Once I figure out where my dispatches will live (other than on Twitter with the #bsmf hash tag), I’ll let you people know. I’m sure you’re clamoring for my updates. And for me to get trampled again. I hope I don’t disappoint. SANS TRAMPLING.