If there’s one thing I love, it’s a private bathroom. There’s nothing like being able to do your business without seeing someone’s Easy Spirit pumps dangling in the stall next to you (if the person in the stall next to you is the size of a third-grader, wearing cheap high-heels and sitting on the pot, I mean). I’m not a super fan of the public, multi-stall situations. Mall bathrooms are the worst, mostly because they’re the saddest places on earth. Not like I hang out in malls all that often, but you’re picking up what I’m putting down, right?
By now, no doubt everyone has heard of today’s duel celebrity deaths. Michael Jackson died of suspected cardiac arrest at 50 years old and Farrah Fawcett succumbed to anal cancer at age 62. You’d have to be living in a cave or the Arctic Circle not to have heard the news. The national media had been reporting for days of Fawcett’s imminent demise, so her death was less of a shock then Jackson’s, but no less sad. What does this have to do with Vermont? Nothing, but it’s likely to be the main topic of conversation at offices and neighborhood baseball fields and weekend barbecues for a good while.
Last week, I wrote a blog post for my new employer about a wee hobbit visiting our humble shire. I had gone for my usual three-hour lunch at my favorite Burlington eatery where I discovered that I had only just missed one Elijah Wood who was lunching at my lunch spot. Well, of course I did what any shoeleather journo would do- I got myself laid off and used my severance money to binge on alcohol and hookers. No, actually, I went straight back to my office and like the good little typist I am, wrote up my sixth-hand account of Wood’s visit to our little city.
This is what scandal looks like.
You can read the post here. Don’t worry, it’s not epic. And it’s not meant to be read by sticks in the mud or humorless gray people.
If you asked me the question posed in the title of this genius little post, I would answer with a resounding “I’ll take a cafe owner who’s not a total jagoff.” Yes, I would rather have someone who appreciated my business than have a steaming mug of tea or a hot cup of coffee. Well, I would pretty much take anything over a hot cup of coffee. I have enough natural energy- I don’t need any caffeine-enhanced energy. Anyway, I’m getting a little off the topic. What else is new?
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Let’s bypass the whole “I’m sorry I haven’t written in a while” spiel. You and I both know I have more important things to do than write blog posts, like pick my toenail lint while waxing philosophical about geopolitics. And I know you have more important things to do than read what I write, like trim your grandmother’s beard. So I’m going to dispense with all that nonsense about not having posted anything in a while. Instead, I’m going to get right into the story.
I was recently in Philadelphia visiting Pigpen before heading to Pittsburgh to see my family humans. While in Philly, we lodged with Pigpen’s friends in a tony little hamlet on the Mainline called Merion Station. The couple and their house were perfect. They had chard growing in their front yard and a pergola covered in some climbing vine. The lady of the house- we’ll call her Tiny- gave us a tour of their abode when we arrived. There’s nothing I like more than being reminded of the fact that despite my advanced age, I’m only just playing at being a grown-up. See, real grown-ups have houses and mortgages and guest bedrooms and offices and juicers and refrigerators full of food and drink. I have none of these. I have a mangy dog and cheap drywall and stairs that lead to nowhere. But I’ve got my health.
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