June 11, 2010

St. Nobodysville (by my ghost writer)

Comin' at you from a headache and pseudo-severe dehydration. Lets call this place St. Nobodysville ... the where isn't important, the how don't matter much... just don't make me look at a beer until that little turkey timer pops up and I can re-emerge tonight as a  butterfly... make that barfly.

So you, my fellow Philadelphians and holders of the key to St. Nobodysville, haven't heard much from me this week, but then again you're out there drinking your wages and spoiling your digestive tracts too. We might have even bumped heads out there in real time. Still, I would hate to leave you hungry to know about my gourmandizing.

Picture this: the time is midday, the place is the Royal Tavern. I am daintily plucking at a sweet potato banh mi and fresh greens, while sipping ginger ale through a short tube. The bartender (oh! that worldly crew!) informs me these are called vegetables, this particular ale is 0 % and has 0 IBUs, despite the earthy backdrop and this tiny cylindrical tool is very common among liquor and soda drinkers, as well as the juice box crowd.  We get so few of those in St. Nobodysville. I gathered several to bring home with me, in case you don't believe.

Happy convalescing, Readership. You lucky ones are waiting out St. Nobodysville horizontally at home, while some of our brothers and sisters had to bear it out there in The Real World: replenishing vitamins from orange and pink bottles of water, and recapturing sleep in 4 or 5 minute increments on folded elbows.

See you soon.