Snow

I shall blunkdrogg as codename shallot, as I saw a cooking show in which an Australian chef pronounced that particular root vegetable with the stress on the first syllable ((instead of the second, as all reasonable new-world colonials pronounce it) recently, and was charmed.

Two things:

It's snowing here in Chicago. It's always fucking snowing in Chicago. It makes me miserable. It does, it does. Snow, once upon a time, was a magical thing. I recall all those winter days in Bellingham when it would snow and the city would shut down joyously. It was one of those few places in the world where snow seem to be universally appreciated, celebrated. You could easily imagine businessmen and bankers and university professors and bartenders and students equally appreciating the chance for their lifestyles to be disrupted.

Here in Chicago it's just a chance for an otherwise mediocre life to become that much more work. C'est la vie, I suppose. Me, for one, I'm thinking of heading back to the part of the world where snow is a pleasant aberration, not just every third winter day.

I'm currently drinking double makers rocks and a highlife and thinking of better times, either in the past or future. I don't really care either way.

If you like cool things for drunks then you might like this:

http://www.bottledcity.com/2007/06/29/ive-always-liked-midgets-in-ballgowns/

I do. I'd buy it if I hadn't lost my credit card the other day. Damn, I should cancel that stupid thing.

love,

Shallot.