Saturday, March 04, 2006

When I lived in Chicago, Dave and I, after tossing back a few at the redline tap, would stop by McDonald's for dub-dubs (double cheeseburgers) on the way back to my place. There's something particularly nice about food in the stomach late at night after a few beers. All the questions you recently raised find their resolution in a hamburger and, satiated in body and soul, you can return home to rest. This is why I'm worried about my friends in smalltown, Canada. In a place where McDonald's in no longer faithful and a taqueria a far-fetched dream, you must turn to more dubious means of sustenance. Behind the counter, abutting the spicy potato chips, and partially shielding the Crown Royal, is a jar filled with vinegar and several dirty-white orbs, suspended in solution. You guessed it: the pickled egg. While locals seem not to hesitate, I have yet to discover how many beers into the night it would take to convince me to eat one of these things. To all those pickled egg eaters out there: my condolences in your unknown sorrow.

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

Wed. Morning Blues

At a sleep over party during my elementary school years I was once woken up by my friend's hamster which had escaped and decided to gambol across my face in the wee hours of the morning. In college, it was not uncommon for the guys on the floor above us to bless our slumber with a post midnight drop of the fire hydrant upon the ceiling. Today, however, marks the first day I have been woken up by my next door neighbor praying at the top of his lungs. Whether anyone was converted or how many demons were cast out remains to be seen. On second thought it was probably a joyously annunciated litany celebrating the fact the Maurice, a fellow staff member, successfully made it back into the country. And after all, it is Ash Wednesday.

Remember that you are dust, to dust you will return.