Next 2nd Story: Sunday, August 27

Webster’s Wine Bar / 1480 W. Webster / $10 at the door
(doors open at 7:00)

On the last Sunday of every month, Serendipity Theatre Company presents a selection of completely original stories told by local artists and musicians. Jumping off from our popular Storytelling Festival, these monthly events give Serendipity’s storytellers a chance to once again present their stories as well as experiment with new material for next year’s festival.

This month features stories by Matt Miller, Jonathan Messinger, Megan Stielstra, and Lauren Pesca.

For more information on this and other Serendipity Theatre Company projects, please visit us at www.serendipitytheatre.org.

This is one of my favorite things to do EVER, so if you’re in the Chicago area and you’re free tonight, you should come.  I’ll be the lady in the corner laughing my ass off and having a great time, having completely forgotten about her vow not to drink.

And I’m probably too drunk, at 3:58 a.m., to elaborate on that.

I miss the existence of Jerry Garcia.

He has been gone for eleven years and some days.  I’m not sober enough to figure out just exactly how many more days than eleven years he has been gone.  Rest assured he’s been gone for longer than I care to acknowledge.

I never actually knew the man, so it is preposterous and presumptuous that I would say something like, “I miss him.”

What I miss is what he gave me, and that is actually not gone.  Surprisingly.  I spent a part of this night at a party full of people I didn’t know and a part of it losing myself, blissfully, in what Jerry gave me, maybe without even knowing it.

The ability to let go of myself.  My  SELF.  And just be.  Just let everything go.  Every worry, every fear, every everything.  Just to let it all go and to just be.  To let music enter me not through my mind but through my body.  And to be fully aware of the ways different parts of my body can drive other parts.  Maybe you understand.

Maybe you don’t.

But the fact remains.  I miss Jerry.  He was taken too soon.  Selfish of me, I know.  But I wasn’t done with him yet. 

I have a few body parts I would consider unnecessary spares if you would consider coming  back.  Meaning, I don’t REALLY need my left arm all that much.  If someone wants it, it’s all yours.  As long as you give Jerry back.

I spent some time tonight crying while laughing and dancing, mourning while feeling alive with music.  Can you mourn someone you’ve never met?  Can you mourn him 11 years after he died?

I think, perhaps, that it would be good for me to go to bed.

But, so you you know?

I miss Jerry.  Terribly.

Okay, so it isn’t really a pimp and ho party.  It was supposed to be a combo pimp and ho party.  A bachelor/bachelorette party (maybe I spelled bachelorette wrong, don’t care).  A combo party, where we were all supposed to dress up like either a pimp or a ho, but a bunch of spoil sports wouldn’t jump on the bandwagon, so now we’re all dressed up like regular people, and we’re all drunk.

Surprise, surprise, right?  You people know me, I know you do.

Where I’m at is a party at which we are supposedly celebrating the impending marriage of a couple of people my husband went to high school with.  This is an impossible thing, really, because my husband and I are a marriage of two people from two opposing high schools.  Maybe that doesn’t seem like a big fucking deal to you, but if I stood up on my stool, Ketel One and tonic in hand, and announced “I am a graduate of Hinsdale Central, and I am proud of it,” I would probably be taken out back and a bunch of drunken idiots would try to kick my ass.

However, they would be unable to do so.  Why?  you ask?  Why would you ask?  Don’t you know me?  Because I am FROM Hinsdale Central and they are not.  They are from the other side of 294.  The only thing, I mean the ONLY thing we, in high school, would cross over the highway for was the Highland Queen.  We’d sneak out of the parking lot and promise the security guard an order of fries if he would let us out, and we’d either go to the Hinsdale McDonald’s, or we’d take a VERY DEEP BREATH and we’d head east on 55th and we’d go to the Queen.

The Queen is still there.  Occasionally, my  husband will have the guts to ask me to go up to the Queen and get him a Double Brute with cheese.  And fries.  And maybe a chocolate shake.

I’ve forgotten what I started out to say.  One of the things I started out to say is that Phil, who is throwing this party (and who is having a fantastic conversation with my husband’s best friend’s girlfriend right now), has a completely wired house.  I WANT A COMPLETELY WIRED HOUSE.  I know it sounds weird.  Sure, I can go anywhere in my house and connect to the internet.  I can sit on the toilet tomorrow morning with diarreah (I know I spelled that wrong, don’t care) with my laptop on my lap and connect to the internet.  I want the little room off Phil’s kitchen that has 3 computer screens. 

Phil is my idol and I adore him.  Really. 

And Holly told me to stop what I’m doing and join the party.  Here’s the deal.  This was supposed to be a party at which we were supposed to arrive dressed as either a pimp or a ho.  I had dreams, people.  I heard about this party, and I thought, GODDAMN IT!!!!  I get to dress up with my boobs hangin out and no one is supposed to be allowed to care!!!  It’s like a dream fucking come true.

Holly wants to know what I’m writing.  Someone told her, “She’s writing on her blog.”  She said, “You have a  blog?”  I didn’t answer.  No one here knows anything about me, really, which is hilarious.  Because they know more about my husband than I want to know.

Phil is getting mad and I don’t know who to stick up for here.  Poor Shannon.  She’s trying. 

Me to Shannon:  “Do you have something to say?”

Shannon to me:  “Oh, I don’t want to say what I want to say.  No comment.  It’s not worth my comment.”

Phil is not embarrassed about what he does.  Why should he be?  I’ve met him maybe three times in my life, and I’ve liked him every time. 

I will be  back.  People are giving me shit for writing, which pisses me off.  What the fuck is wrong with me writing?  I’m still listening to you, you idiot.  I’m just typing every fucking word you say, that’s all.

No, I’m really not.  I can’t type that fast.  I can type REALLY FUCKING FAST, but I can’t type that fast.  Because while people are talking, I have all these thoughts, and I also have a censor that steps in.  Right now, I want to take everybody into a big, gigantic bear hug and tell them to shut the fuck up.

I am hoping, PHIL, ARE YOU LISTENING?, that Phil guides me towards a beautifully designed website.

Now, suddenly it’s gotten all QUIET.  There’s nothing worse at a party than when it gets all QUIET. 

I love you, my people.  I’m sorry I’ve been in and out for so long now.  The writing is coming back, but I’m hiding it from you.  I’m sorry about that.  I’m trying to come back.  I haven’t abandoned this altogether, and I don’t think I ever will. 

Bye bye for now.

My son has developed a strong interest in watching The Golden Girls.  It’s in reruns on some cable channel, I don’t know, but every morning, I go in the kitchen and have to listen to Rose’s high-pitched voice or Ma’s grumpy grumping.  Just now, Anthony ran into the room where I sit and said, “Mom?  What’s cardiac arrest?”

“Uh, it’s when your heart stops.  Sometimes they can get it started again.  Sometimes you die.”  His face fell. 

“Oh,”  he says.

“Why?” 

“Well, Rose just had cardiac arrest.”

“Rose?  Are you watching the Golden Girls again?”

“Yes!  The doctor said they were prepping her for, for, what’s it called…”

“Surgery?”

“Yeah, surgery,” he says, and runs from the room.

A few minutes later, he comes back in, looking somewhat relieved.  I figured Rose had been revived successfully.

“The doctor says that Rose has to have a triple bypass.”

“Okay, great,” I say. 

“Why do you have to have a triple bypass?”

“Because your arteries get clogged.  Do you know what clogs your arteries?”

“Fatty food,” he says resignedly.  I guaran-fucking-tee you that kid is going to ask for salads all day.

Golden Girls.  He’s NINE! 

I don’t often post recipes. Okay, I never post recipes. But these nachos are so goddamned good, I think everybody should be packing pounds onto their hips right along with me.

These nachos are inspired by those served at one of my favorite Mexican restaurants, Nuevo Leon, and I hope they don’t mind my posting my version here. I would still rather go there to eat them, because they cost $6.00 for twelve, which is more than any sane person should eat in one sitting. You can go to the liquor store next door and get yourself a six pack of Modelo, plop down at Nuevo Leon (they’ll put your beer in the fridge for you and bring you one when you’re thirsty) and eat until your stomach has reached such epic proportions that you cannot be unwedged from your booth.

Anyway, the nachos:

Get yourself some high-quality tortilla chips. Absolutely no Tostitos or any crap like that. Most chain grocery stores in my area have begun to sell good-quality tortilla chips in their “Hispanic” aisle. If yours doesn’t, then hunt down a Mexican grocery store and get some. I recommend Del Rey or El Ranchero. There is a brand called Nuevo Leon (I’ve no idea if they’re affiliated with the restaurant), but while they are excellent for chips and salsa and are as fresh as if you’ve just sat down at a good Mexican place that makes their own, they don’t hold up under the pressures of beans, cheese, etc.

Anyway, I like the Del Rey’s the best because they are generally flat and pretty hardy.

1 can refried beans. It doesn’t really matter what kind. I’d forgo the Taco Bell kind for La Victoria or Rosarita, but just go for the can that says “Traditional.” If you buy the no-fat beans, then you’re a loser. (Okay, okay, you can buy the no-fat beans and some no-fat sour cream and some no-fat cheese and try to make these nachos, and you can also try to tell me that they’re just as good as using the full-fat versions of all the ingredients, but I will just laugh in your skinny, fat-free face).

The following step is skippable if you just can’t wait. If you choose to skip it, just spread a bunch of beans onto each individual chip and place on a foil-lined cookie sheet (why foil lined? Do you really want to stand at the sink, your belly full of deliciousness, and scrub baked-on cheese off your good Williams Sonoma cookie sheet? No. You do not. Just use the damn foil, then you can toss it and just put the cookie sheet away.) If you choose NOT to skip this step, then do this: empty the beans into a saucepan and shake as much hot sauce as you like into the beans. Heat until they are smooth. This makes the beans more spreadable, and also adds the spice of the hot sauce. You can go ahead and use Tabasco, because you’ve probably already got some in your refrigerator. If you don’t, buy yourself a good Mexican hot sauce. You won’t be sorry. Anyway, after the beans are heated, spread them onto the individual chips (as described above).

Shredded sharp cheddar cheese: Buy it already shredded. Who has time to fucking stand over a pan of chips and beans with a shredder? Plus, if you accidentally shred one of your knuckles, you’re going to have to worry that you are eating part of your own body in a few minutes. And that’s just gross. Sure, sure, you can shred the cheese BEFORE moving to the bean step, but what kind of cheap bastard are you? Sure, the big block of cheese is cheaper. But after you eat some of these nachos, you are going to want to make some more, especially since the fiends you shared them with ate most of them, and you are certainly not going to have the patience to shred some more cheese. In addition to that, if you somehow decide NOT to make more nachos, you’re going to have this big hunk of cheese left over, and it’ll probably get all moldy and nasty and hard and rindy in your fridge, and who needs it? You’ll throw it away, and end up making the per-ounce price of the cheese higher than if you’d just bought the damn pre-shredded cheese in the first place.

Okay, so you’ve got your pan of chips with the lovely beans spread on them (by the way, use as many beans as you like. Some people love refried beans, some, not so much. They are required in this recipe, however, so don’t try skipping them. You’ll have an inferior nacho not worth your time or trouble). Anyway, sprinkle your shredded cheese over the beans/chips. Not too much! Don’t go crazy with the fricking cheese already! This isn’t a pan pizza, for chrissakes, this is a pan of nachos. Too much cheese will just bind you up and give you gas.

Place the whole cheesey-beany-chippy wonder under the broiler of your oven. Now, here’s where it gets tricky. The inexperienced will want to do the following BEFORE they begin anything else, but once you’ve gotten it down to a science, like I have, you can do this next step AS THE NACHOS ARE BROILING. But be careful. If you take too long and space out, you’ll burn your nachos, and that sucks. Even if you don’t burn them, if you take too long to do this next step, and your broiled nachos are sitting on the stove, waiting for the next step, they’ll get a little mushy and cold and that’s no good either.

Anyway, VERY QUICKLY, whip up a simple guacamole. This sounds harder than it is, but all you have to do is slice up your avocado (around the center, you know how to do it), spoon out the delicious avocado (meat? What the hell is that green shit called, anyway?) into a bowl, pour in about a tsp of salt, maybe a bit more, and squeeze half a lime into it (you can use the other half for your vodka tonics). Using a fork, mash it all up together. Don’t go crazy. You don’t need to create some uniform avocado soup. Leave some of those nice yellow chunks in there. Yum. DO NOT, under any circumstances, use some pre-made guacamole. That shit’s nasty. It takes exactly thirty seconds to whip up a simple guac, okay? It will take you longer to find scissors to cut open that stupid plastic bag of pre-made guacamole.

So, right when you’ve finished mixing up your simple guac, your nachos will be perfectly broiled (the cheese is melted and the edges of some of the chips are turning brown). Take them out of the oven, and with speed unparalleled, spoon a blop (yes, a blop. It’s like a dollop, but I like the way it sounds better) of guac ONTO EACH CHIP. Then, quick as you can, spoon a blop of sour cream onto the top of each blop of guac.

Eat one. Decide it’s not necessary to place the nachos on a pretty, decorative plate. Eat them, standing up, at the stove. When the people sitting outside on your porch, drinking and waiting for the promised nachos, call out, “Are they done yet?” yell “Just a minute!” (only it’ll sound like “ubamini!” because your mouth is full of nacho. Share the remaining nachos with your friends. Accept their praise, then tell them where you got the fantastic recipe.

Make more. Repeat ad nauseum until you’ve gained 20 pounds. Vow to start using fat free beans, cheese and sour cream. Try it once and realize it’s not worth it. Throw the fat-free version in the garbage and send your children to the store with a $10 bill for more ingredients.

Next time I make them, I’ll take a picture. If I can before they all get eaten.

I’m trying out this Windows Live Writer thing, because I am some kind of a junkie when it comes to trying out new crap. I am thinking it will make it easier for me to blog more often, seeing as how it is incredibly trying for me to get on the internet and log in to wordpress. It’s extremely difficult. (That’s all sarcasm, there, just not good sarcasm).

Anyway, I want to see if this will work.

Let’s try inserting a picture, shall we?

Okay, it worked, but I can’t seem to get on the other side of it to continue writing. Okay, nevermind. All I had to do was grab the pic and drag it! How fucking awesome is that?

That picture is of my son, by the way, at Lollapalooza. (And yes, I am aware I have yet to write up a little review of Lolla. I have been reminded AD NAUSEUM by some people. It just seems a little late for that, no?)

Anyway, let’s try this picture thing again. Here is a picture of my newest niece and goddaughter, Elisa, with my son:

Could a baby possibly get any cuter than that? She’s like a little doll! Of course, she’s got some competition from the niece that came right before her: Charlotte, with my daughter Grace:

Okay, I’m done goofing around with this. I’m anxious to publish it to see how the pics came out. I’ve been having trouble posting pics with wordpress lately for some reason (they come out really big and I can’t remember how I used to make them smaller, and it’s a pain in the ass), so if this thing works, it’ll be my new method of posting, especially over at GoGoGonia’s, where I supposedly post things about my family. Supposedly because I haven’t done it for months.

Every damn day for the last several years, there has been a man who walks his dog somewhere between 7:15 and 7:45 in the morning. Past my house. Every day for the last several years, I let my dogs out into the yard at 6:30 and leave them there for a while, until they start whining to get in. What do they do when this man walks his dog by my house? They bark their fucking heads off, that’s what they do. They jump over the side of the porch into the part of the yard reserved for humans and they follow this guy all along the fence, barking like freakin cujo. Although, did cujo bark all that much? I guess not. I don’t remember. Anyway, my point is, this man walks his dog by my house every day and gets barked at by a couple of looney brittanies. He walks SLOWLY. Occasionally, it seems, he encourages his dog to stop and shit, SLOWLY on my parkway, and then this man SLOWLY bends down to pick said shit up. SLOWLY. With my fucking dogs barking all the time, and me standing at the door to the porch yelling at them to shut the fuck up and get in here. The man doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t share a “Gee, can’t dogs be annoying sometimes?” look with me. Oh no. He just saunters on by, fucking torturing me, my dogs, and the rest of the fucking neighborhood who have to listen to this every day. And every fucking day, I think to myself, “Can’t you, at the very least, walk on the other side of the fucking street? I realize it is too much for me to ask that you go around another block. I know where you live. There’s no reason why you have to come this way every single fucking day. Fucker.”
This morning, I was out on the porch enjoying a cigarette when my border collie, Casey, starts barking inside. I realize the time and decide to get Peso and Jed out of the yard and into the house so their barking won’t be so annoying. They’ll just stand at the living room window and bark their heads off, but at least it won’t be so annoying for the neighborhood, right? So I stand, and as I open the back door, I can see through the front window that this man and his dog are CROSSING THE STREET, about midway down the next block. They are not crossing the street to walk on the other side, so as not to set my dogs to barking like they do every day. They are crossing to MY SIDE. Which is ridiculous, considering where this guy lives. He lives to the south and east of me. He was already on the south side of the street, and was crossing to the north side of the street, obviously SPECIFICALLY SO THAT HE COULD WALK BY MY HOUSE AND SET MY DOGS TO BARKING. What a fucking asshole. He does it on purpose! I’ve always suspected that he does it on purpose, although why he would I just don’t know. Probably because he’s just that kind of person. Just that kind of ASSHOLE.

Gloves are off, baby. Just because you have your dog trained so “well” that it can saunter by three maniacally barking dogs and not make a peep doesn’t mean you’re anything special. At least I know when someone is coming anywhere near my house. You, however, probably couldn’t rely on that animal to do anything more than shit on the floor if someone tried to break into your house. So there.

The thing that really gets me is that about a year ago, I saw this guy around town, walking with a monk. Yes. A monk. A guy in a brown, rough-cotton dress with a rope belt and some wooden beads and crosses hanging from it. And bad sandals and no hair. I don’t know what the hell that has to do with anything. I don’t know why that would be the thing that really gets me. It just does. A guy who hangs out with monks just doesn’t seem like the type who would intentionally and maliciously walk his dog by my house every day, intentionally crossing the street so as to maximize the disturbance caused to the neighborhood.

There’s another person who walks by every day, but I don’t hate her as much because she amuses the hell out of me. She’s got one of those big-ass sheep-doggie looking things. It actually looks like a sheep. Maybe it is a sheep. I don’t know. At any rate, it is gigantic. It may have 50-70 pounds on her. She’s not a big woman. Every day, around 8:15 (she should be showing up any minute now), she walks her dog by my house and my dogs go berserk. But if you sit in the living room, close to an open window, as she walks by, you can hear the constant flow of under-the-breath bitching she spews at her dog the entire time she’s walking by. It’s fucking hilarious.

The bitch of it is, if these people are so annoyed by my dogs barking at them when they walk by, WHY DO THEY WALK BY? It happens every single day. I just don’t get it. When I’m out walking my dog (as opposed to encouraging them to run around in circles in the yard for exercise), I purposely avoid the homes where I know there is some crazy dog that’s going to go insane when it sees my dog out the window or past its fence or whatever. Because 1. I’m a courteous bitch, and 2. I already have to listen to an almost constant stream of barking. I don’t want to listen to someone else’s dog bark.

What the hell is wrong with people anyway?

Again.

This has happened before, but never for this long of a stretch. I’ve lost my funny and I don’t know how the hell to get it back or where the hell it went or why or what I did to make it go away. And it’s really pissing me off.

I’ve also lost (but am slowly but surely recapturing) the desire to write anything at all. However, recently I’ve gone on a writing binge (in my journal, obviously not here).

I’ve noticed today that I’ve missed two things here at VikiBabbles. One, my 500th post went by without notice. I’m on post 524, if you can believe that. Or maybe it’s 525. I’m not sure and I don’t feel like going back to check.

I have also allowed my two-year blogoversary (that’s a stupid, geeky way of referring to my blog’s anniversary, just in case you weren’t able to figure it out) to pass by without so much as a Yippee! or a Yeah! or a Can you fucking believe I’ve actually bothered to maintain this shit for two years?

However, writing those words seems familiar, so maybe I did remark upon it and just don’t remember. Or maybe I’m just remembering what I said last year, on my one year blogoversary. I don’t fucking know. Nor do I care. Suffice it to say that as of July 30, 2006, I have officially been blogging for two years. Two years (and a couple of weeks) ago, I got bored whilst surfing the internet and signed up for a blogspot blog, and the rest is history. Well, kinda.

In lieu of writing an actual post, I thought I’d take you on a trip through my archives. Then I remembered that I’ve done that a few times in recent months, because I had nothing of actual substance to say, so I won’t bore you with it again.

I used to find things on this here internet, newsy things, things that bothered me and whatnot, and I’d post them to my blog with a handy dandy link (back in the day when I was first figuring out how to do all this, and it thrilled me just to figure out how to operate the link button on blogger. Now, of course, I am a genuine html novice!). I don’t do that anymore. For one thing, no one cared to hear my opinion on whatever matter it might have been that got me all riled up. For another thing, I’ve found other places where I can do that, like Newsvine, (let me know if you want an invite, I’ll give you one, and you too can become ridiculously absorbed with what other people say who are far stupider than you are, and also become depressed because there are so many other people who are so much smarter than you are). And for still another thing, I don’t even give a shit about anything anymore. I don’t care about world events. I don’t give a crap about Iraq. I could care less about Israel and Hezbollah and all that shit. Global warming? Is the world going to end before I die? No? Then I don’t care. 9/11 conspiracies? Whatev. George W. Bush? Does the world seriously need another blogger ranting and raving about what a moron he is? Religion? Abortion rights? WHO THE FUCK CARES? Not me. I really don’t. Give me a nice big-ass bottle of Ketel One (on sale at Dominick’s this week for $40! And yes, that’s more expensive than gasoline, but it gets me WAY FURTHER) in my freezer, a fresh supply of diet Schweppes tonic water, a couple of limes, a fresh pack of Winston Lights and a working lighter, and this whole fucking planet could implode and I wouldn’t even notice. I’d just be sitting here, writing boring shit in my journal, making lists of what I have to do today and what I have to get at the grocery store, minding my own fucking business. Seriously. There’s just way too much to get pissed off about, and not enough time in the fucking day. Excuse me. I need to make a fresh drink.

Perhaps what has happened here is that the apathy I have developed in regards to current events has somehow infected my ability to write, or my need to write, or my desire to write. At any rate, I am currently going to great lengths to reignite myself. Okay, maybe not great lengths. I bought a new journal notebook different from the Moleskine’s I’ve been using for the last several years, hoping that it would inspire me to write more. It did. I now have a new, pretty notebook (Clairefontaine paper-have you ever in your life felt such a thing rubbing against your wrist as you write? It’s like satin, for crissakes) nearly filled with some of the most boring, mundane crap you’d ever have the displeasure of reading in your entire life. But what’s also in there are several references to the Magical Idea Fairy, who has, somehow, found me again. Perhaps she is, like a monarch, migrating. Which means she will only be here for a short time. Or, perhaps, she has returned to stay. Maybe she had to go to the hospital for treatment of some disorder caused by second hand smoke. Or maybe she had to go to rehab because she’s been inhaling the surely alcohol-laden breath expelled from my body every few seconds.

Wait. What the hell am I talking about here? I have NO IDEA!!!

Does it matter?

I think what I was trying to say is that I am trying, very hard, to drag myself out of this little hole I’ve been hiding in. I am putting pen to paper and fingertips to keyboard and I am writing, and while it may appear that what is coming out is of very little consequence, it’s just practice. It’s like someone who was injured in an accident, or had a stroke or something, and they have to learn to walk again, and when they first try, they look like a complete retard (yes, I am well aware of the utter lack of sensitivity in that comment. But, like I tried to make clear above, I DON’T CARE). But after a while, they figure it out again, and they’re walking around like a pro in no time. That’ll be me. While what you are reading right now may appear to be the ravings of a retarded, drunk homeless person, what it actually is is my first, tentative steps back onto the path of the written word.

See how nice I said that? Sure, I could have left out all that crap about retards and being retarded and all, and while I sure do hope I didn’t offend anybody, that’s just the way it’s going to have to be for now. I officially apologize to all retarded people out there, and most especially to all retarded, drunk homeless people. And drunk people. And homeless people. But, especially, to the drunks. I didn’t mean to call you retarded.

Update/Edit: I’m totally editing this entire entry.  Okay, not really editing.  I’m adding shit.  So if you’ve already read it, read it again.  Cuz I said so.

at my brother’s place in the city, in his “lounge,” watching the clearest fucking television I have ever seen in my life. I mean, seriously, it is clearer than my own eyesight, which isn’t, honestly, saying much.  I’m legally blind, and the contacts and/or glasses make it possible for me to drive and find my way to the bathroom, and that’s about it. We are drinking beer. I have my feet up. It is storming outside.  Finally.  Because it’s been fucking HOT.  The kind of HOT you remember it being when you were younger, and some summers, you say, “I swear I remember laying out in the backyard and it being fucking hot, but we don’t seem to have that kind of hot anymore,” and then we have that kind of hot, and you say things like, “What the fuck is this?  Global warming?  WTF?”
This is hardcore television, by the way. HDTV, baby. You know, how you think about buying yourself a new, expensive television, and the upgraded cable to go with it, and you think, nah, it’s not really worth it. Why the fuck would I do that? Well, I am going to stop at fucking Best Buy on my way home and pick one of these puppies up and I am going to start watching television again. Because apparently, the reason I have not been watching television lately is NOT because television is crap. It’s because the picture on my television is shitty. Unbelievably shitty. Ridiculously shitty.  Compared to this.  I can see the line of the commentator’s pancake makeup, and I can also see the shitty skin beneath the pancake makeup, and I can see the bags under his eyes, and I’m thinking they used to say the camera added ten pounds, now it shows everyone how desperate you are to hide that you’re 15 years older than you try to claim you are.
And tonight? Before I came here? I went to RUI, which is Reading Under the Influence, held at the lovely Sheffield’s bar in Chicago. And I’ll write more about how fantastic RUI is later. I’m not capable right now, and I want to go outside and smoke a cigarette and look at the lightning.

Because it’s storming. Hardcore storming right now. A classic, beautiful summer thunderstorm that we have needed for way too long. It has been unbelievably hot and sticky and horrible outside, and everything is dying and the AC wants to give up, but hopefully, with this storm, comes a break.

This post should be funnier than it is, but I’m relaxing right now, and don’t feel like being funny. Perhaps, I shall soon (did I just use the word “shall”?) have a new guest poster, one who is arguably WAY FUNNIER than I am. We SHALL see.

Goodnight, all. I’ll be back soon.