Ah, yes. We have so much to look foward to, don’t we? Bomb­ing ulti­ma­tums, col­ored advi­sory tides, soft­en­ing up, the oncom­ing Peter­bilt of can­cer and other lurk­ing ail­ments … music just seems to suck it up, and film– well, what can one say of mod­ern cin­ema? But my SUV runs like a charm, I tell you what. And my Vien­nese dark roast really hits the spot on cold morn­ings like today. I just hold my shiny (ele­vated) yel­low mug with both hands, cov­er­ing the car­toon Chicago with my right palm, and hum. Debilitate/liberate, my dad would always say … that, and “accel­er­ate through the turns, son.” Yes, I know: good advice, espe­cially dur­ing these cake­walk times of pen-cameras and duct-taped VW doors.

hootersairRelief awaits the patient … this has been made evi­dent by the announce­ment yes­ter­day of a new air­line: HOOTERS AIR. Yes, chick­en­wings and orange satin short­yshorts have now taken to the air. Lim­ited runs between Atlanta and Myr­tle Beach, with con­nec­tions to Newark on the way. Brings me back to the good old days when me and my frat broth­ers would hop a slow mov­ing freight train behind McCormick Plaza and ride the 35 min­utes down to Gary, Indi­ana, walk down 7th Avenue to the best fuck­ing Hoot­ers in the coun­try, catty-corner from Demont’s Drive-Up Liquor & Gun Shop.

Shit. Worst thing is, you can never go back, man, you know? I couldn’t tell you where half of those guys are at now.

This is how I like it now, though. Drink­ing the cof­fee at the precipice of a despot-less world, sit­ting in front of a 21″ flat-screen in my under­wear, scratch­ing my soft gorilla chest until the phone rings. I take pic­tures of cor­ner­stones and col­lect them in my fil­ing cab­i­net under a folder enti­tled PROOF. And peo­ple never let me down because I don’t expect dif­fer­ent from them … this makes it all the eas­ier, I say.