Some things hurt more, much more than cars and girls: 8.19.09

Some advice: If presented with the opportunity to spend a Tuesday evening at a J. Roddy Walston and his Business show, by all means, dust off what your momma gave you and go shake it out. However, do not clothe yourself with corduroy pants. What are you, an idiot?

This is the thick of August, literally. Last night, the air defied scientific properties of mass and volume and actually became solid. Yes, the dog days are panting hot, stinky, saliva slobbery breath all over my poor little burgh. Perhaps the only device capable of cutting through the torridity is an ice cold domestic longneck. Even better when they're two for one. Plus, I gabbed and gabbed last night and boy, was it fun.

Oh, yes, and I went to Scotland and Ireland. Among the pursuit of other pleasures, this gave me an opportunity to indulge my lit-nerd sensibilities and wander around north Dublin hoods in the footsteps of one Leopold Bloom. Also, I do firmly believe that we all need to start saying "wee" and "bits"--although not necessarily in a noun/qualifying adjective relationship sense...and at some point, I really do need to get around to watching "The Wire." Those darn Scots knew more about my crime-ridden little town than they decently should!

Now, while I was deep in the grey, misty wilds of eastern Scotland, John Hughes passed on to the eternal graduation day upstairs. You know I absolutely adore him and feel that now is an appropriate time to suggest that March 24th become a universal day of tribute to the grand marshall of adolescence, the principal of teenage exuberance and angst. If you don't know why, I can't help you. Hey, screws fall out all the time. The world is an imperfect place.