And these are his words. He held up a chunk of rock. He speaks in stones and trees, the bones of things.

Part of this is from a few days past, so sue a dude:

Cold and rainy day out, hopefully the last burp/fart of winter. Probably not, but we can hope. Just bumpin' to the Rinse FM and keeping it on lock at the Wicker Park/ Bucktown CPL branch. What are you up to?

Did you see Mark Buehrle's no-hitter the other night? Totally 100% sweet. Caught a bit of it on the radio...thought Ed Farmer was going to xxxplode through the Myopic stereo speakers. He didn't talk about it the entire game until the damn thing was sealed. Old baseball superstition, if you didn't know, not to talk about the no-no in progress. Good for Burls! I hope his next contract is fat like the back of a baby's neck.

Sox have been inconsistent as heck, bullpen snapping one day and dogging it the next, rotation getting all underhanded, lineup mashing then crashing. Typical April hijinks. They're a game or so out of first, and the Angels of Los Angeles of Anaheim (real team name!) are coming to the South Side this weekend. Can the Good Guys pick up a few games on the Twins?

Lately I've been reading stuff you'd hate. French dudes, mostly. Apollinaire, Guy De Maupassant, Huysmans and on into Bataille...that type of thing. I like these "decadent generation" types. Lots of stories of wealthy barons utterly bored by existence, locking themselves in their large castles, wasting vast inheritances and going mad. Apart from the wealth, I can relate. And then there's Georges B., who writes about his sister sticking warm bull testes into parts of her body where the sun don't often shine, and rutting with (and urinating upon) just ritually-murdered priests. Doesn't that sound weird? Beats the junk out of Ayn Rand! (Queen of capitalist hate sex...full blog theory/post on this coming soon...)

Miles is DJing at Continental right now, and I should be over there offering moral support...but I'm sure he's slaying them real good. Besides, I was there LAST night (offering moral support of another nature) and too many nights at the ol' 4AM can get migh-TEE tiresome. Areif asked me the other night if it bothered me to be surrounded by drunken brutes (my term, not his) when I'm keeping it on the regular. Actually, people ask me that all the durn time. My easy answer: think of how stupid you were acting last time your ass was yanked on firewater. Now imagine the utter opposite of that. It's like a Jerry Lewis movie, and I'm always Dean Martin. Wait...bad example for sobriety. You know what I mean. That crestfallen stranger you made a cross-eyed war whoop at and then flashed your tits to, when the Journey song was playing? He was me and he was not particularly impressed by the tits in question. But keep trying! Its bound to work for you someday.

Speaking of tits and the bar (whoever takes a law school class with this title first; I'll pay your entire tuition), last Sunday marked the first occasion of a *completely random/clothing optional* Empty Bottle hook-up, at least in my somewhat illustrious career. Not to be all TMI, but if you can hold your utter disgust with me for a few more moments, there is full-bore Jimmy Durante pending. The subject came up (oh stop it!) the other night downstairs, and when bartendress (did I just invent that?) Jill asked what facilitated this event (the fellow hook-up-ee was as sober as I was, btw) all I could say was that she was on layover at the time. As soon as I said that, four other friends/patrons surrounding me at the bar all shouted "LAYOVER" at once, just like in a deformed episode of Cheers. Apparently this is some kind of registered excuse for casual out-of-town heavy petting. Who knew? Last time I was on layover, I feverishly shouted obscenities at Tony La Russa in a St. Louis Internat'l Airport gift shop. True story...but for another time. SUCKERS!





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