Scott C., booking magnate and fellow baseball freak, told me the other night at the Bottle (Headache City killed it, Ponys brought some dece clatter and by Art Brut it was so hot the spaces inbetween fingers were sweating) that OGFP has sounded "too angry" lately. Sorry. Now that the weather in Chi-Boggie permits a semblance normal human activity by it's residents, I'll try and get more "friendly" on you. No more ranting about crazy bums for a while.
Our top story today...the record shelf collapsed. After promising to anchor the damn thing to the wall for over ten months, and noticing a distinct list to the left for a few days, this last mighty memorial to my fallacy gave way at approx. 4:10 AM CST Wednesday morning. 25 U-Haul record boxes full of wax were spewed across the hall between kitchen and living room. I moved it immediately so that Miles would not be trapped in his room for the rest of eternity, a'la an Edgar Allan Poe short story.
In other news, drank my Ginger Ale at the Bottle bar last night next to a rotund, familiar looking man I later learned from doorman/neighbor's boyfriend Bob was none other than Horatio Sanz. He drank many Amstel Lights and seemed to enjoy A Silver Mount Zion. I, alas, did not, and not indulging in drink either, went upstairs and tackled some Vollmann.
(<$BlogItemCommentCount$>) comments
No comments:
Post a Comment