I’m working from the coffee shop today, and all day, the owner has been playing The Smiths. I took a little break to run a couple of errands and stopped by the new apartment and my landlord is not only a super nice guy, but he’s from Massachusetts. So, we chatted a bit about my time spent in Beverly/Salem/Peabody. I’ll betcha he’s a BoSox fan. We had this discussion, mind you, as he was installing a really fabulous shower head on the new shower.
I might die of forchness. I might.
Hey look, more drunk people in green. Chicago, my friends, really observes the shit out of St. Patrick’s Day. I have watched green-sparkly people stumble around and bump off of each other and puke on the sidewalks for nearly a week. I’d never seen anything like it before I moved to Chicago. Saturday morning, I saw a girl barf on the curb, then I saw a guy in a beer-mug tophat, Saturday afternoon, Leah and I watched a pack of green “woo” girls playing in traffic. It’s really something, I’m telling you. The Irish are even kind of impressed/amazed by what a big deal it is here. That’s saying something. Anyway, not even a bit of me is Irish, too gung-ho for forced-boozing holidays nor am I inclined to Saintly things, but bon chance to those of you who are out for (green) blood tonight. Be careful, all of youse. I worry.