Sexy Does It At Home

Well, ye faithful, the Bears survive the Broncos.

The Turkey was, as ever, an aborted attempt at nurturing family love, trust, sanctity, and thanks. But, as has been said, "want nothing and the surprises shall ever be pleasant." More on that never.

Weaver's birthday was Saturday, and I must say he disappointed his friends, family, and ancestors with a poor attempt at slamming a case. Six beers and a single one-eyed monster later, I'm unable to rouse him from my couch. Pop goes back to Serbia on Wednesday, my car is parked safely on the street outside, and I'm the proud owner of Gonzo, the new image-fest of a biography of the Good Doctor (H.S. Thompson), intro provided by none other than the Colonel.

For anyone still in the throes of the identity crisis of the late teens/ early 20's: I cannot implore you strongly enough to read every word the man has ever written. He has done it, he found the real Fountain of Youth, the uncomprehensible ability to split a non-physical object and sell it by the millions with the choice of hardcover or paperback. He is the embodiment of the young, able white man, neck deep in a love affair with all the debaucheries of sin, yet able to cause those around him to question their state of not questioning. There is something deeply profound about reading the Good Doctor that changes, no, not changes, solidifies, deeply inherent traits newly found.

So that's where I am now, my mind reading the bumps, grooves, and ridges of Gonzo like braille as my body blows smoke rings that explode on and envelop the pages. Many dark days and cold nights will pass before the crown is taken from this, my favorite, activity.

The Italian-stallion has also proven himself to be a disappointment, and I shall, next we meet, eat his pacts with a less ravenous appetite.

Good bye for now, finals are a mere fortnight away.