Listen, Folks, Don’t Make Me Email You

Okay, the Playwright wants to use the stuff we talked about here in her play on faith and doubt.  These are your words and I don’t want to use them without your permission.  So, look through.  If you said something in that post, just let me know, yes or no, if I can use it.  Even you, Mr. Smartypants.  Everyone except indifferent children, who is off the hook because he let me know the first time I asked.

So, don’t make me hunt you down to get a definite answer.


Here’s who needs to let me know:










Yankee Transplant






The Professor


Dorothy W.

Unexpected Delights

1.  The Knucklehead’s nervous excitement about his new BBQ joint.  Isn’t this what’s best about blogging?  When you find yourself holding your breath and crossing your fingers as someone you’ve come to care about makes a brave leap?

2.  Check the live version of Springsteen’s “Ramrod” here and tell me if that crazy “La la la la”ing guy in the audience isn’t just the happiest thing you’ve heard all day?

3.  “Red tree at dusk, sailor’s .. uh.. elephant tusk?”  Ha, Chris, you tickle me.  As do you, Becca, with your boob talk in the comments.

4.  It sounds suspiciously like Exador might have peed on his new hardwood floor.  All I have to say is that I’m very sad that my hot, drunken neighbors don’t get naked and leave their front doors wide open. 

5.  Speaking of hot neighbors, when I got home from being turned down for lunch by Kleinheider, my hot neighbor was standing on the stoop, shirtless.  Hello, hot neighbor.  He asked me how I was doing and I said that Kleinheider had turned me down for lunch, even with tits like these to stare at and my neighbor kindly said, “Unbelieveable.”  Thank you, hot neighbor.

Another Day Older and Deeper in Debt

I’m kind of glad to be getting back to work.  Is that weird?  I like doing nothing, but I also like the structure of having some place to go all day.

The Butcher’s best friend is coming down on Friday.  I don’t know what we’re going to do with him all week.  Maybe Mrs. Wigglebottom can keep him entertained.

Anyway, so far being thirty two is no different than being thirty one, which felt no different than being thirty. 

It’s been eleven years since my Uncle B. died.  He’s been dead a third of my life.  I just can’t believe that.  It seems like just yesterday.

Anyway, I hope he’s some place and that we’ll meet up again, a long time from now.

Okay, I can’t avoid getting in the shower any longer.  Work, here I come.


Do Your Little Hoo Ha Dance

The Butcher took me out for dinner to Saki, a Japanese restaurant in a little shopping center right behind the 5 & Diner in Cool Springs.  It was delicious.  God.  It was fabulous.  I thought it seemed a little pricy, but they bring you out a lot of food, so I think it’s worth it.

He and the dog are now snoring away on the couch while Boston works on beating the Yankees.

Once upon a time, when I was young and passing time making out with girls, waiting for the boys in History to wise up, I used to love this song.  I have no idea what it’s called or who sings it.  The Butcher has lost the CD case and so we have no clue as to how to even begin to figure it out.

Take a listen (assuming I’ve linked to it correctly) and tell me if you know who the artist is.  One of you must have eclectic enough tastes.  If it’s helpful, it’s possible that this was a local Chicago band back in the mid 90s.