This is supposedly a very exciting time to be lover of beer here in The Cleve.  We throw ourselves a raging Cleveland-flavored kegger every October, and this time we've got The Neighbors joining the party.  Trumpets blaring. Red carpets lining the sidewalks to merchant doors. Confetti and whatnot. Rejoicing in the streets.  Pure. Malted. Bedlam.

First we have The Big Comeback.  The Prodigal Son knocking on our border's door. The Return of The King.  For the first time in...well, not that long, Ohio can add itself to the list of states on Three Floyds website under Distributes To.  So yay.  We now have the opportunity to buy $17 bombers of some pale ale.  Don't get me wrong- when I was in Chicago this summer, I drank an irresponsible amount of Zombie Dust... but don't re-launch in your neighboring state with your long-standing British Mild, DIPA, and a Barlywine and expect my wallet to get Fear Boner.  Manufactured fanfare and a few stellar, non-available, offerings don't really endear me to overpaying for the rest of your lineup.  You've brought a kazoo to play in a brass band.  Thanks, Three Floyds-  But kinda no thanks.

But...but, but We've got YUENGLING coming!  Soon!  Monday!  Huzzah!  Parades!  Fireworks!  Golden Showers!  Great!  We finally get to have some of the oldest brew in the United States, where it'll sit in the coolers next to the other stalwarts like Budweiser, Coors, and Busch.  Better late than never, eh?  Maybe my enthusiasm has been soaked by years of substandard bootleg kegs and overpriced cans served by subversive dives, but Yuengling has a long ladder to climb before it gets to the top of my Cheap Beer heap.  But... You like it.  Or say you like it.  So thanks for coming next door, Yuenling-  L'chaim. Prosit.  Word to Your Mutha.

It's hard for me to get my juices flowing for these also-rans when there's still so much good shit out there that we can't get.  Half Acre. Terrapin. Uinta. Russian River.  I'll even make you a deal- I will proudly sport the biggest* Fear Boner, while wearing spandex tights,  as I empty my bank account the day I can get some Fat Tire at the corner store. ( *biggest is relative to a mini-Snickers)

Okay, so I'm not all that impressed with The Neighbors- I've seen their schtick, and I'm already kinda fucking bored with it.  But there's still Us!  We're still awesome and we've got tons of kegs to kick before the end of the month.  Streamers! Majestic Guitar Solos! Riots! Wasabi Snooters!  This is the third year for Cleveland Beer Week, and now it's SO! BIG! that it needs Four (4! 1,2,3,4!) Flagship events.  That's almost a Flagship-A-Day! (but it still can't get a site that's not a absolute abomination of design.  Whoever put that thing together needs to have their fingers hacked off and given to feed hogs.)  And... and I'm not really looking forward to it.  I'm the sad kid sitting in the corner, pointy birthday hat on my head, staring at my shoes.  Because the inept personalities and egos that fill the Cleveland Beer landscape are...tiresome.  I get it. You're awesome.  You're a Beer Martyr, working tirelessly and without pay to let me know that Robert's Pub on Forty-First Street has some rare Leprechaun Piss on tap.  You've got free tickets to give away for the IPAlooza happening at Jamie's Flea Market.  Thanks,You-  I don't know where I'd be without You...except still enjoying a beer with my friends.

That doesn't mean you shouldn't enjoy any of the fantastical beer we have here in The Cleve.  But Beer Week seems to me The Alot like Sweetest Day, a manufactured holiday to celebrate something you should probably already be celebrating all along.  So get out and drink something Local- meet your buddies at a bar, have 'em over to your place, hang out with the bum on the corner, Shit, meet me out for a bevvie or five.  I promise I won't greet you with a Fear Boner.

It all started when I tried to leave The Cleve.

It was mid-May. I was on here telling peoples not to go to a beer event that ended up being pretty cool. Oops.  So there was that. But I had incinerated the end of my wick; done with the city and scene that I had called home for most of my life.  There was just nothing left for me to burn to the ground with my fiery habit.  I was going to move on, dousing the flames still flickering at my campground.  I was going to Chicago to find Love and Career.

And then like a 1960s backyard rocket, things went I crashed into the ground. Hard. Hard enough to shatter my elbow in 3 places. Short sight saw nothing but disaster.  Surgery, a metal plate, 2 screws, a torn ligament, and 3 months of rehab later, I'm still in Cleveland, a happy little planet stuck in the grasp of an all-consuming Black Hole. I'm also crushed beyond Smitten and on a better career track. Funny, right?  Which means things worked out better than I had planned for, which is always how it is for shlubs like me, aight?

Which is much like my beverage of choice tonight. Shots of Devil's Cut bourbon, chased by the simplicity of an Oktoberfest brew. The spicy sweet bite balanced with malty tradition. On paper,it...doesn't work out.  Not really planned for, it's the lovechild of drinking what I currently have on hand.  But the two of them work together far beyond expectations.

Much like my time here this past Constructive Summer.  

Okay, real quick like.  Just a little, you know...


Ahem.

So right now I'm across the street, holding down Narm's fort at White-Collar Redneck while he does his best to reinforce the Stupid Lazy American stereotype while trying to invade Italy's underpants for a couple of weeks.  So go read it.  Because I'm basically Tommy Boy with a dinner roll.  So naughty.  And then remember to read it again when he gets back, because he's funnier and beardier than me.

Second piece of officialness is belatedly announcing the winner of my Obscenity Contest...which was Kelly and Jose.  But really, after using the term pussy snot in reference to my liver...I don't think I really had much of a choice.

(other than, you know, drinking away the pain of my disgusting liver tears...)

As much I would like to just talk about rag-tag circus punk marching bands, Neko Case's forearm tattoos and the raging gorilla-strong desire I have to make babies with her, my exit strategy from The Cleve, and the drunken ballyhoo of kicking buildings, throwing shoes, and hiding out in The Open, I have a little bit of business to attend to here on my slice of Internet Pie, something that's not easy for me to do.

Turns out when you have a reputation as a booze hound and a bloggy blog with the word Beer in the title, you tend to attract certain peoples attention- such as that of the presumably good people that are organizing the International Beer Fest out at the IX Center. So they propositioned me like you would any low miles, low morals hussy: If I wouldn't mind doing a little promo work, they'd provide me with a pair of tickets to disperse to one of the 5, possibly 6 peoples that actually read this thing. (Ed. Note- I'm not really sure what I'm getting out of this whole deal, because it sure as fuck isn't a free pair of tickets for myself... Much like a low-rent whore, I am fucked again.)


So here it is: Time to line up for a shot at a pair of GA tickets to any one of the sessions over three days. Your chance to head to beautiful Brookpark and sample several of the approximately 1,645 different beers that'll be on hand (Ed. Note- Here is where I'm legally-ish obligated to state that “1,645” equals “about 800”). The opportunity of a weekend to pretend you're me on a Wednesday and wake up with a pretty decent hangover. As planned, it should be an absolutely massive event with enough beer and people to make you pleasantly drunk and annoyed with strangers.

An event that I have no intentions of going to.

(This would be the point where the presumably good people that are organizing the International Beer Fest are probably less than enthused with me.)

BUT. I have some serious concerns pertaining to the event. Not necessarily in order of anger-induction, they are:

The list of beers being poured. Now, I will admit: It looks about a bazillion times (Ed. Note- not even an exaggeration) better than when they initially released it. But that's like saying a piece of chuck steak from your local grocery store looks better than a piece of roadkill that's been rotting out in the street for the past week until the August sun. But the fact that there are an ungodly amount of Macros on the list is an inconsiderate gloved slap to the face of my/your good senses. Like, do you really want a three ounces sample of Bud Light? (Ed. Note- For every person that gets a sample of Bud Anything, I'm going to step on a kitten. And yes, I'll know if you did. Trust me.) Or are you looking to savor the metallic notes found it Old Milwaukee? Maybe it's the nostalgia of some Colt .45 hitting the back of your throat that you're really looking for. Okay, yes, I know that it says International in the title, not Craft, or Micro brew, or Good. And yes, I know that the Macros are the Two Ton Rhinoceros of the scene, horning their way into whatever the fuck they want to, like a drunk Div I-A linebacker that stumbles into your Scrabble game. But what is this, a Beer Fest, or a Fermented GMO Corn Juice Sipping Party? Yes, there's a ton of good beers that are gonna be poured. For every can of swill being slopped around, there's a Big John from Goose Island or an Abita Turbo Dog getting poured, putting a big, fat smile on Somebody's face. But me, I just can't get past the taste of Rhino Piss. I'm hung up on it like I was on Winnie Cooper in 7th grade. I won't let it go until I get a very stern talking to from the principle at school...

The Venue. Now, maybe I'm underestimating how big this thing really is, like how far LolCats has spread, or how many people really think that I'm just a functioning alcoholic. But c'mon, the IX Center? That's like me renting out The Jake for a bar-league softball game. And the IX Center has all of the warmth, comfort, and personality of a dead hooker's vagina. It'd almost be better if they just held it on the east bank of the Flats. Or on the Valley View bridge.  Or out in the middle of the lake.  (Ed. Note- Hey, if you can't figure out my feelings- I think the IX Shitter fucking sucks.)

The list of beers being poured. Okay, maybe not what's on the list, but how it got on the list. One of the biggest faults I have with any event that is produced in association with the distribution network lording over Ohio is the tourniquet that cuts off any creativity from the brewers. What they don't tell you at events like this is that it is against Club (I.e.-Ohio) rules to pour any beers that haven't been approved by the Ohio Liquor Commission for sale. So that means that any beer you can have here, you can just go buy at the corner store (provided your corner store decides to carry it.) There's no surprises. No one-offs, no special brews, no...excitement. Avery can't bring in any of the Demon Series. Bell's can't uncap a few bottles of Batch 10,000. Dogfish Head can bring a cask of whatever wacky shit they decided to make only for the brewpub. And without being overly wordy like I usually am...that sucks. Yes, there might be a few tables that pour a few bottles of bootleg hooch, like brewing Seal Team 6. And yes, because of the rules, the Ohio brewers might have some special/rare shit on tap. But other than that, most of it will be hauled in from a warehouse, diverting it's fate from being delivered to a supermarket to being delivered to the IX Center for three days.  (Ed. Note- I lied.  Now is where they're certainly unhappy with me...)

BUT- WITH THAT ALL BEING SAID

You should probably go. You really should. There really is going to be a lot of good beer being poured by happy people to happy people. Happy people having a lot of fun. And you're not me. You don't have that elitist beer snob living inside of you; the one shrunk into the corner of my belly, hording the growler of Pliny the Younger and a pointy stick, prodding me sharply in the liver whenever it sees Sam Adams' Cherry Wheat.  So don't listen to the cynical ravings of a man with an angry gnome living in his stomach. Besides, you and a friend of your choosing are gonna go for free. So go. And tell me how it was. (Ed. Note- besides, I think I'm out of town that weekend...

The Contest:

You've gotta leave a comment, either here or on the Twitters (@buildingjason, use #contest) saying...

I dunno.

Oh! Leave your favorite curse word/exclamation. Vulgar. Biblical. Something you heard your grandmother say once. Whatever. Come Saturday at noon, I'll pick my favorite phrase of damnation and one Potty Face will be hooked up with a pair of tickets (via the presumably good peoples that organized the International Beer Fest) and a bar of soap

So let's get inappropriate.

Sooooo... for the past week, I've been straight up aurally addicted to this band The Head and The Heart.  Like, specifically their song Down in the Valley.   Like, couldn't walk away if I had things At Stake. I walk around signing it.  I walk around hearing the lyrics rattle around in my head like a full can of bronze spray paint.  I mouth them, sing them whenever I think nobody is watching me. I...well here, just check it out for yourself:



So there.  That's it.   That's why I've been spellbound for the past, what...few days? Week? Going on a embarrassingly long amount of time?  I just can't shake it.

Because I want to be the Last Band Member. Number 5.  The Guy that's playing random percussion and Rocking Out.  Wait for the 3:45 mark.  Waaaaaaaiiiiit.  Yeah: That. Guy.  Because...

That's It.  That's what I want.  I have a Massive In Japan sized interest in music.  BUT.   I don't have a ton of musical talent.  Like everything in my life, I have a middling amount of passable ability.  Me= Dabble in Everything;  Master absolutely nothing.  And as far I get in music is having a non-Cat Being Raped voice and a decent sense of rhythm.  So to be that Guy in an up-and-coming rocket ship of a band? The Guy wearing cheap-ass Wayfarers from a truck stop, a Wife Beater, and shaking a couple of maracas.  Out on the road.  Riding a wave of notoriety and cash.  And Not Giving A Fuck™. 

Because you're That Guy.  You're not really tangibly valuable to the band.  You... Let's be honest: You don't add really anything to the musical experience.  At All.  You're...another face to feed out on the road.  You play the Shakers.   But.  BUT... You're awesome enough to be still out there.  You're worth comes from personality.  From proving yourself to be...a value add.  Better than money.  Cash Money.  Dolla Dolla Bill, Ya'll.  Better than Gold.  You're just a Good Guy to be around.  And you're worth more than you thought you'd be, and so you ride This. You ride how the music gets to you.  How It snaps your head back.  How It makes your body bob up and down, dancing in place.  How...It makes you a Fan again.

And that's what I want so bad.  That...feeling of being in Awe.  When I come to and notice that my jaw is hanging just that bit lower.  That things just got that much heavier.  That things got...that much better.  That's What I Want.

Besides- He has nice hair that I like.  So there's that too.

The Monday Swing is nothing more than chemicals, escaping vapors of the neurotransmitters burned up in the climax of the weekend, smokey trails left over from a weekly budget-crushing firework display meant to rattle the teeth in the gaping maws mouthing the ooohs and aaahs.  I know this.  I expect this now, a condition of my condition, like a side effect crammed into the fine print of some new asthma medication.  

But It was a bit more vicious this time around, with only pointy teeth and bony elbows offered as a greeting.  Like your favorite pet chimpanzee reminding you what's what.  And that maybe you should clean its cage a little more often.  And that HOLY SHIT HE JUST TORE MY FACE OFF LIKE AN ILL-FITTING HALLOWEEN COSTUME.

I should have know better than to turn my back on this Monday.  I should have remembered my own Cautionary Tales of Monday.  I am the Trip Fisk of Mondays.  Mondays are not for decoration.  Mondays will cut your fucking hands off.  Mondays... Mondays will fucking cut you wide open.  This is why I tell my stories...

Especially after WhiskeyFest Weekend.  Especially.  WhiskeyFest is one of the events...one of the few that are an annual spectacle, a Midwestern Mecca of Mash and Grain.  This was my 750ml year in Attendance.  What was new/different about this time back through The Breach?  One- Rye is fucking back, baby.  Tons of Rye whiskey at the Fest.  And actually, my favorite of the night was Redemption Rye, out of Bourbon-Land.  Dos- GroupMe was an invaluable resource for the evening.  Like a gangbang for your text messages, it lets whatever group you set up all stay on the same page. And relay amazing Whiskey finds. And make sure everybody knows who pissed themselves throughout the night.

Which thankfully, was nobody that night. We made it through the evening without a casualty. Which is a rarity, between the Dudes and the glassware.  Somebody...somebody or thing always is...unlucky. Or pulls the Short Straw. Or takes one for The Team.  Whatever.  They end up broken or hurt or doused in...beverage. This year we all made it through WhiskeyFest...only to break ourselves later that night.  Broken chairs, spilled water, and tainted pants.  Which ended up being a theme for the weekend, until I got on the train, The Whiskey Shore Limited Express, headed to The Cleve.

And now I'm here, fighting a lack of chemicals with an excess of chemicals, using a bottle of Redemption Rye, a rye IPA, and a bag of Jalapeno-Jack SunChips as cannon fodder against my face hole.  No raising of the victory flag tonight...but by the weekend there should be Celebratory Fireworks lighting up the sky...

I've gone thirty rounds with March; I have one more to go. One more final bell. One more chance to throw that knock-out punch.  That's the only way I'll get the decision, that check mark in the Win column.  Because otherwise, it's going to The Judges- and who the fuck knows how they'll score it.

I mean, I got my shots in.  Heavy body blows and crisp hooks that snap the head back.  Those middle rounds...I really thought I had It on the ropes.  I got to meet quite a few really great people this month, people that crossed over A-Ha-style from the ether into the physical, fantastic people that I'm...I'm really stoked to get to know. And I worked my ass off.  And I partied my ass off.  I was riding that rhythm, that cadence that lets you anticipate the next move, the road up ahead, the next dance step.  It's a heady place to be, when you can feel what's coming.

But March got its shots in too, lulling me into the Rope-a-Dope.  Sensing the contrails of burnt dopamine and serotonin pouring from me, It left a knuckle imprint on my heart. It hit me hard and dirty.  It hit me with low blows that cost It more than just a point on the score cards.  It's turned me around and into the ropes the past few days, furiously working against the ticking of the clock, wasting little time to decimate what stamina and confidence I had amassed over time.

And now, even by my own corners' estimate, It's winning. So I've got one more shot. A Last Dance. A Ninth Inning, Two-Minute Warning, Golden Goal chance at coming away beaten and victorious.  Or I end up beaten and defeated.

And how do I see it winding up?

I'm broken. I'm...I'm just really pretty much broken. I'm just trying to make it out alive, just to see the next fight. I've been beaten about the head and neck with a giant club of self doubt and I just wanna be done. I'm...yeah. Earlier this week, somebody I had just met coined the phrase Nightmares & Promises... and I don't think he had any idea how closely he had just described my March. (ed note- If I ever run for office, Nightmares & Promises is totally going to be my Platform.)

This isn't my first loss, or even my worst.  I don't have the record of a Champion or a Contender, someone looking to make a name for themselves, looking to etch their name into a book.  I'm a journeyman, a AAAA ballplayer-D League, practice squad fodder, just trying to preserve my own memory of what the Majors are all about.  I know my lot.  I'm just a stepping stone for Bigger Things, maybe a footnote, a sparring partner.

So I'll pick my carcass up off the canvas.  Because that's what I do.  That's...that's how I live.  Friday is a new month, a new fight. And a tomato can like me has to keep fighting.

Oh, Part Two? Part Two is a non-story. A false alarm. Crying Wolf. Part Two is a small glimpse into what happens when an anxious mind gets a foothold, a place to lace its fingers into and choke the rational thought into submission.

So here's the back story to the non-story: I haven't had a significantly informative doctor's visit since the years started with a 19. My most relevant medical experience in the past decade has been sticking my arm in an automated kiosk at Walgreen's/Target/CVS to get an estimate for a blood pressure reading. Which, coencedentaly was a high reading (okay, readings.). And that was enough to plant a seed in my head. A a fertilized plot to grow anxiety. But that was years ago. Since then I've made lifestyle changes to address the issue (although if you try and take anymore booze away from me, you will end up with a pen lodged sideways in your throat.). And much like any super villain, I turned my attentions back to trying to take over the world and assumed that everything went to plan.

ANYWAYS

Besides putting my liver and social life through the equivalent of Spetznaz training, I've actually been prepping myself to participate in the Cleveland Half Marathon in May. As such, I figured it might not be a bad idea to see how those Plans turned out and get a baseline idea as to what some basal life metrics might currently be sitting at. So I shuffled myself off to a free health screening at a Clinic hospital to get an idea as to where I stood.

Cholesterol? Rock. Solid. Glucose levels? Rock. Solid. Resting heart rate? Rock. Solid. Blood pressure? Well...I wouldn't say it was reading through the roof, but that's only if we're talking about the roof on the Terminal Tower- My BP would be looking out from the Observation Deck.

And that was all it took to loosen the shackles on my Monsters, the insecurities that can wreak havoc on my normal, mundane activities. I immediately lifted the embargo on seeing a medical professional, even though I sure I was inviting certain uninsured financial doom upon myself. Work outs because an exercise in diminshing returns. I could almost start to feel the anxiety squeezing the sweat out of me. Every little blip. Every little twinge. All seen through the microscope strapped to my perception. By Thursday I had to cut my run in half; having a small panic attack on a treadmill 30 minutes in is not what I'd call A Good Time. On Friday I cut my work-out short because I could have sworn that I was going to pop, right then and there, Scanners-style.

And then I went to the doctor. He was a fine gentleman; someone that I had never met before. We talked for a while, he did a few basic tests, then noted some observations. And not once did my blood pressure read above 136/80. Elevated, yes. But almost 40 points lower than what I was reading earlier in the week. And you know what? That's what I'm going on now. Professional v. Volunteer. Human v. Machine. Right v. Wrong. That's what I'm using to wedge apart the those nervous fingers gripping the Oh Shit handles in my brain. That's...Sometimes, when sailors are sailing, they think twice, about where they're anchoring. And I think... I could make better use of my time on land. I'll drink less, 'cause lord knows I could use a warm kiss instead of a cold goodbye; I'm writing the folks back home to tell them  Hey I'm doing alright!

(Ed note- Instant spoiler: this is a two-parter. Because I have too much to say and you probably would get bored and not read it all...)

That post about Huey Lewis, the one currently lingering in Blogger purgatory, is pretty much rubbish. There's...there's some decent pieces, some scrap with value. Leftovers sitting in a digital Pull-A-Part salvage yard. But for the most part it's little more than the rusty pieces of incomplete thoughts and bad grammar. Shit that even the Homeless doesn't want.

The short story is that I fucked myself up watching Do You Believe In Love on the Youtube, over and over and over and over. And over. My mind short-circuited by an Eighty's spiritual precursor to Grum's Through the Night, I spent most of Friday giggling, hungover, and at work. Then I ate Thai food and destroyed myself under the mantra of Good Fun at Johnny's Little Bar.

See, last week was supposed to be my Down Time, quiet time to ease my way into the anal rapage that is to be the month of May (and April. And May.) Except I wasn't paying attention in third grade (or any of the other 24 subsequent years) and I still have no idea how to read a calendar, which is why I spent most of my Quiet Little Week smoking my tires, the RPMs bouncing off the rev limiter, hair metal blasting from the tape deck.

Quick Plug: Go eat at Banana Blossom (er, Hammock?) in Ohio City. It's the newest endeavor to open up in the terrible location that has seen Halite, Budapest Blue, and Jazz 28 come and go in the past few years. Dinner on Friday was stellar; I'd love to see a good place like it make a decent go at It in that spot. So do your part (you know, if you like Thai food...)

Which brings me to Now. Now I have to take a federally-mandated furlough. Now I have to throttle it back. It's like playing a game of Red Rover, Red Rover with Life. Sooner or later they're going to break through; try to keep your best player from watching from the sidelines.

And with Down Time comes the Down Swing. My mind works better at a sprint; my body is sucking wind way too early anymore. So between reestablishing Dominance over Little Bar to whiskey flights at Sullivan's (which was super fun with Bridget!) this past weekend, my body was like John Candy trying to run the hundred meter dash. Which is not a the kind of conditioning you want to see headed into the Spring Games. I've already committed to the St. Patrick's Day Triathlon, the Opening Day 4x100 Relay, and the WhiskeyFest Death March.

But I'm not one to let up on the gas. The best place for the accelerator is resting firmly against the floorboards, leaving little more than a pile rubber and burnt clutch material on the ground, the smell of race fuel hanging heavy in the air. But some times...some times... you have to because...

So I woke up this past Friday morning to find a few empty bottles from Stone Brewing lying about, an angry bitch Nature outside, and this sitting open on my desktop:


This Train never stopped. Maybe a pause in publishing. A station missed. Customers left on the platform; a break in broadcasting. Dead air. Perhaps unacceptable dead air for a supposedly live event. But the wheels were never at rest. The arms that connected them, churning. Pushing through. Pushing forward. Stretching further. Clawing for more. Oh, but there was that one town. The one where a Passenger got off the Train. But I sho..


How do you talk about something without talking about it, without addressing it directly. Code? Innuendo and overly complicated metaphors? Ones and Zeros playing a binary solo? By vomiting your tongue onto your plate? Almost everyone knows my/the topic at hand, yet my syncopated toes tell me that I shouldn't need to speak to it. And I...I won't. It's unfair for me to be even these 129 words deep into the monologue as I am. Things happen. They happen all the time- Be happy that they happened, not sad that they ended.


Aaaaaaaand that brings me to now. My own apartment, My own space. With, consequentially, not a lot of furniture. But a lot and adequate are not the same thing. I have what I need to live right here with me. More than I need. And it feels good.


I've passed some good scenery along the way these past few months. A great concert in The Go! Christmas by myself. New Years' with all kinds of great friends. Christmas Ale shenanigans. Beer Dinner at the Happy Dog. Bar Trivia, where doing a shot can get you more points than a correct answer. And now a show at the Beachland and the marathon sprint into the next month.


Oh, that Next Month, March. March has taken longer to get than you imagined, but is here before you know it. March is a brick on the accelerator pedal. March assumes that you've had a routine physical within the past year. March is a fresh clutch. March doesn't wait for you to turn & cough. March already knows how sick you are.

It's...ham-fisted and not even close to being up to snuff, but considering it's the first thing I've hammer'd out in 5 months (and the pie-eyed nature in which it was produced...), I'm going to let it pass onto the Information Superhighway with a warning, a firm lecture, and a Have a nice day.

Because greater than what the content itself is kinda that it is content.  Finally am I back to the point where I feel I can write mostly readable posts that only a few people will want to read anyway. If you're one of those said few, well, we return to our regularly scheduled program, already in progress.