Things our wicked stepmom taught us:

Shut up.

Get out.

Because she's a whore filled with disease that will make your thingy fall off.

Filthy monkeys like that deserve to live there.

All your jibber jabber is making me sick.

They'll steal from you every time.

No wonder, look at your mother.

Grilled Cheese Sandwich Monthly

A journal dedicated to the art and craft of the grilled cheese sandwich

Volume V, issue 5

Table of Contents

◙ Cover Story

~Polish Rye – the new go to bread.

◙ GC Tech News:

~Lars Nielsen reviews the latest in GC pull down double sided grillers.

◙ I can believe it is butter and do believe I love it

~10 reasons why butter is the only proper cooking medium for a GC.

◙ Grilled Cinema

~Greatest grilled cheese movie moments, number 3. (Hint, it features Johnny Depp and his nutty lover.)

◙ The never ending fight, installment 6 zillion and one

~The bread and cheese purists square off with the tomato and bacon additionalists.

◙ Fiction: "The Grilled Cheese Epiphany."

"I sat alone in my room with a Muenster and white bread grilled cheese. Diagonal cut, it flanked a bowl of Campbell's tomato soup. Then a creeping feeling like melted cheese oozing from butter grilled bread. I wiped my mouth with a paper napkin and it overcame me..."

◙ GC Gourmet

~Chicago lunch joint Milk and Honey does a GC that causes spontaneous ejaculations of joy.

◙ The GC mating game

~When you are heating up your honey with a juicy GC consider these spring time love accompaniments...

>Frisky tater tots

>Sensuous noodle soup

>Spicy mango ketchup

◙ World GC Report

~ In an underground Paris bistro we found a new world of curd under two slices of grilled bread.

◙ Reader GC pictures and recipes:

~This month: A triple decker from Wisconsin and a deep fried experiment from Fresno.

◙ Editorial:

~The fatal link between GC scarcities and world hunger.

Make sure you do the funnest thing possible Friday night

Friday comes around and people get twitchy. Where are we going? What are we doing? Who are we inviting? Offers get tossed around, some are earnest entreaties, some are mere feel-you-outers. We all do the same thing, because god forbid, if we end up staying home in front of the TV tonight we will blow our brains out while watching Reba start dating again. I am as guilty as anybody. Every Friday I put out lots of maybe invitations while trolling for the best thing to do.

What exactly is the best thing to do? Best means, in the purest sense, free. Free food, booze, dancing – all these are considered best. Best also means watching people/animals fighting and wagering on the outcome of said fight. Best frequently means rubbing against foreign visitors seeking quick love in a Days Inn suite.

But what happens when inviters press us? People get like that. They say they have to know now or else they will give the theater ticket/couples massage gift certificate/clown school lesson to somebody else. Put these people off with intimations of an impending family crisis. Do not go into too much detail but mention it may require you to bail out of plans at any moment. Say something like, "Yeah my grandma has this thing, procedure, whatever, I might have to be available," then drift off like you really do not want to talk about it.

The trickiest part is assembling your invitation cards. Nobody wants to have all offers of friends' work parties. The object is to get a diversity of proposals. This provides us with the most choices when we finally deign to choose. Think spectrum. Think on one end, hearing Barenboim playing Hayden piano concertos, or on the other end feeling your shoes stick to the floor of a basement hovel where people dance in cages and the crawlspace has been converted to a love lounge. Friday evenings are fickle states of mind. One minute we want to rampage, the next we want to slump into a booth and eat soft foods. Only when the bell goes off will we truly know whether we are heavenward or hellbound.

Inevitably the many offers you end up discarding will each have an annoyed friend attached to them. How to mollify these people? I like to use two methods. One is to act confused, stressed and like you may have incipient dementia. Say something like, "Oh man, I'm sorry I had this client thing at the last minute and I got freaked out then my grandma called and I was like, I know I'm forgetting something, but I couldn't remember what."

The second method is to lie your ass off. Make up some total fabrication to excuse yourself and never deviate from it. Lying of course has risks, like your true activities getting featured later on the evening news. If you use the lie method try and avoid any kind of camera. A disguise never hurt either. This may be the time to try on the nose putty you bought or those knee high vinyl go go boots. Anything to distract people from seeing who you really are.

The coupon book came in the mail

It has sprung spring, and with the wonder of creation blooming again we rejoice at the seasonal arrival of the coupon book. What riches will the coupon book bring, what pleasures, what sensations of touching, drinking and tasting a hot wax 25% off?

The spring coupon book presently holds my 'or current occupant' household in thrall. My beloved and I adore the coupon book. In fact, we use it to test the strength of our relationship. Every time the coupon book comes (4 times a year) we will look at it by ourselves. Without showing the other we write down our top three coupons we most want to use. We then compare our lists to make sure we are still together mentally as a couple. Glad to say, the spring coupon book reveals we are in 'couponious' sync.

The skilled coupon book user knows how the game is played. The coupon books arrives all shiny and happy and gay, but under its cover it contains real business propositions. Which coupons do you use is the question. Not all are the same. Terms get bandied about blusteringly. Things like: half off second entrée of lower or equal value and automotive lubricant of your choice free with VIP service package. Confused? The following tips will help you discern 'coupon' from 'poop on.'

First discern whether the offer includes a discounted 'fondue smörgåsbord with complimentary wine.' That is a valuable coupon right there, secure in safe place immediately. Also, if the coupon provides a free use of chemical solvents, this is a good deal. Things like hair coloring, carpet cleaning and three insecticides for the price of one. Avoid coupons that promise beauty, glamor or exotic skills such as the ability to kill somebody with a pinky or how to knit. Coupons were invented to provide working families with basic amenities at value prices during off peak hours only. Coupons add value to life when they whiten the top teeth free or provide 3 Schwarzenegger movies for the price of 2.

What a lot of people do not know is that a coupon book is also a code book. If you read a coupon book thoroughly you will learn things about your world heretofore shrouded in mystery. You will gain insights into universal human traits like vanity, spirituality and what those annoying neighbors are listing their house for. The coupon book is also a local history that speaks of Italian immigration, chronic back pain and a recent invasion of fancy shoe wearing ladies.

A coupon book makes for great entertainment as it does savings. I like to bring the coupon book to the bathroom and to bed with me. I find I can cozy up for hours with the wannabe upscale menus, the many benefits of corrective eye surgery and remembering again what is included in a "deluxe pet beauty and emotional health diagnostic service." (hint: prescriptions are available.)

Where are the girls you never hooked up with in high school?

This is what our investigation turned up:

Liz is now married in Chicago and highly lusted for by most of her co-workers. Remember that ass you so cravenly craved? Still buoyant and keeps on truckin'. It is plucked quite frequently by her 'never bored in bed' husband. Beneath her cheerleader creaminess it turns out she can lay some freak on a brother.

Ever think about you? No.

Pam is the head of a college modern art museum in New York City. Remember how she was a total slut in high school? Now she has it down to a science. The privileged guys who bump and grind her are afterwards changed irrevocably. Her figure is still breath taking and she knows what art to buy that will appreciate handsomely.

Ever dream about you? No.

Reiko is back in Japan where she works for a multinational advertising agency. She uses the English she learned while a high school exchange student to seduce any number of sleazy American ad executives. Remember her crazy look and coy way? It bespeaks a relentless horniness now applied creatively to a variety of positions. She is known to travel many miles at all hours for a quality hook up session. Reiko is currently considered one of Tokyo's Top 100 Sexiest People.

Ever chuckle at something you said long ago? No.

Katy owns a wellness spa in Lake Tahoe. Not only does she know the healing arts, she can also freak you fantastically in a beautiful cottage in the woods. Remember how she was the only girl who did a three way in high school? (Besides of course the other girl.) She still puts that proclivity to use with a few lucky couples who come to her natural paradise for a visit. Rest assured if you ever got a three way with Katy in the mix, and after death you were told you could only take one memory to the afterlife, you would easily choose a three way with her.

Ever touch herself while thinking of you? No.

Samantha is a teacher down in Houston, Texas. Yes she still has a smoking body and voodoo energy in her eyes. She was such a lost and troubled creature. And those rumors about how she recklessly got down to business in the backseats of cars? All true. Now she uses her freak talents and her own self-overcoming to sexually heal guys of their deep psychic pain. She makes you weep and shudder in ecstasy in the back of her old Volvo. And by 'you' I mean 'not you' but rather other lucky guys getting the old 'bucket seat lap dance' to nirvana.

Ever cry out your name mistakenly in the heat of passion? No.

25 freaks you never knew in Philly

Over in a southwesterly Philadelphia neighborhood there lived various and vigorous lunatics.

First there was me. Just another alone and palely loiterer. Occasionally I could be found sleeping in the backyard (not recommended in this neighborhood) or playing with the mangy mutts who prowled the block.

Next door was a Vietnam vet, loud, frequently drunk, frequently yelling at his kids. He liked to collect animals then lock them up in the backyard never to be seen again. His house was slowly blighting from a proactive neglect. He had his moments of drunken frivolity with his buddies. They would come over on the weekends and jam with guitars to R&B.

In the apartment next to him lived a huge man, tall and wide. Something was amiss in his head. He reminded me of the protagonist in The Confederacy of Dunces. He wore the same blue garage pants, flannel shirt, army surplus hat and old backpack every day. I would see him about 2 pm amble out of his apartment. Shambling his way to a meandering walk to god knows where. On Sundays his mom would take him out and he would try and crunch into her tiny car. A giant wedged into a Geo.

Behind us was another Vietnam vet and his beautiful but unstable wife (plus three dogs known to be vicious.) She would go get drunk and he would have to roam the bars looking for the one to drag her out of. He had a big heart, but Vietnam I think put in him a cynical bent (as it did to too many others.) Scavenging was his passion. He collected anything and stored it in and around his carriage house. A sample of the items to be found: a moldering jeep, thirty antique windows, oddly shaped granite, weather wizened statuary, iron gas lamps and hundreds of moldy bricks. He begged, borrowed and stole obsessively. He always said he was going to start selling his stuff for 'a nice chunk of change' but he never did.

Across the street lived an old nutter who liked to stare out his window. Fluorescent light overhead. He was the neighborhood watchdog. Kept an eye on cars and houses. He grew up in this house, once full. Now it was a dilapidated haunted three story in which prowled a solitary loner. I was always a little intimidated by him; he kept numerous guns in the house. He ended up shooting himself with one of them when his social security claim was denied. His mother would visit on Sundays. He would have to come down and parallel park the car for her.

Down a couple houses from him lived a Rumanian lady. She took in renters. Occasionally she would lock her tenants out, sit in her attic, look down at everybody and curse. In the dark hallways were hung yellowing magazine tourist pictures of Rumania. I was a friend with one of her renters and every time I visited I was infused with the smell of the place. It was the scent of five thousand miles and one hundred years ago; all musty and sweet. Once I stayed overnight and my friend left for work. I could not get out of the front door because it was locked from the inside. So I had to go back up to my friend's apartment, climb out a window and leave via the roof. I could not see the Rumanian lady, but I could hear her from the attic laughing at me.

Stay tuned for next week: the insect lover, the domestic abuse couple, the strange old man slumped on his moldering Audi...

Supplicate before my novel in verse

I want to write a novel in verse
it will be brevitas wit, bocacious lust and lava bright burst.
Inside its pages reborn will be
malnourished and long martyred Poesy.
She a mischief most spry
inside her the privelaged will fly.

All will awe at my prodigious genius,
applaud most egregious
and pour toasts upon my penius.

My novel in verse will enchant
as glass chin haters curse and recant.
It will exalt, bewitch, forment nostalgia.
Magically it will salve fervent neuralgia.
The ladies who lap it will weep.
The laddies who learn it will leap.
Even dogs will get a nutritious nibble to keep,
for my rhymes taste so sweet,
they will be mandatory homework to complete.
(A better dog she will be if she my novel in verse eat.)

My novel in verse will be taught in class
after class to marvel how taut and what sass.
It will contain elegies, odes and odious gangsters -
soliquies, sonnets and salacious sly pranksters.
Those who sing it will dance and beat breasts;
those who sing it still fest and sweet prance.
And music - that forlorn mute - will trance light upon the novel,
no more she will wallow in modern chests
and morn as if in a dark and stormy hovel.

A magma potion, my novel in verse will make her wake,
and music again will ooze like hot fudge from cake.
I am but a modest man,
not everything I know I can
I merely will effect with my novel in verse:
Epiphany, ecstasy and profligate purse.

Society Wag Wandering - Saturday night hideabout in the digital cable box

Dateline: scratching ourselves

We never go out on Saturday night. The streets are ghastly populated with Jack O' Lantern tourists, cackling suburbanites and the usual trash that clog our fine city's gutters when they let the domesticated herd out of its pen. For those of us with a sophisticated sense of social gathering, we find Saturday evenings to be good for only two things: doing dirty things to strangers and staying out until dawn.

This means Saturday nights are good for a couple things, admittedly, but 98 times out of a 100 they are best avoided. Instead we stay home, warm up the TV, invite a few chosen friends and pig out out on a variety of consumables.

We like to start off our Saturday lie-arounds with something whimsical on the TV. Perhaps a movie starring Hal Holbrook. Or a Korean game show. Polish fashion models on cable access never fail to entertain. The TV and its proper administration are critical to a Saturday night stay at home. With the advent of 'rainbow package' digital cable these management issues have only become more critical. But more on this later.

Friends also must be chosen well. You do not want to invite anybody over with too many emotional problems. For our unstable friends, sitting in somebody's apartment watching TV on a Saturday night is a gateway to mention all the bad things in the world. Smart society wags and wagettes know that we are in the best place we can be on a Saturday night. We want to hang out with others who share this sentiment. After all, we might easily be sitting around for a full 8 hours.

Invite the kind of friends who know what to bring. Like handmade Scottish biscuits and French cigarettes. (disclaimer, smoking makes you feel like dogcrap.) Or a bottle from a delicious California vinery. Or a DVD/game/picture book that does not suck. In short, Saturday night stayabouts require the most intrepid and ingenious of friends. But remember we also do not want overly energetic friends. How do you judge? If your friend wants to do dirty things to strangers or stay up until dawn they are considered overly energetic. We do not want to get cudgeled into going out on a Saturday night. We are staying right here, dammit.

We like to start early with the food. Then in the middle, go strong with the food. Then at the end, pound down more food. The appetizer section should of course include cheese. A fatty goat's milk will put everyone in a lollygagging sort of mood. Salsa is also mandatory. What about something baked then slathered on ciabatta bread? But we understand if people are too lazy to turn the oven on. Do as little cooking as possible on Saturday night. Avoid even food in bags that are hard to open. Food that requires no utensils is highly valued.

Now is when the TV can get tricky. Competing interest groups will invariably form, and desire to watch certain things. Is it going to be a movie to make fun of Ben Affleck, a reality show featuring narcissist alcoholics, or a basketball game with playoff implications? We need somebody quick on the stick. Several constituencies can be mollified by watching four shows simultaneously. But no expert wannabes on the stick, please. Only the best should light up the love buttons.

As much as we do not want to, we have to turn the TV off at some point. Now is the time to listen to music and eat more. This portion of the food should be something we love to eat but never allow ourselves anymore. Like noodles and pork fried in duck fat. Or veal meatloaf topped with potatoes fried in duck fat. Do not be ashamed if what you want comes in a can. If you want a family size can of Beeforoni all to yourself, get out the opener and fire up the microwave.

After dinner it is time to relax as one sees fit. Those interested in a back rub chain should sign up now. Those interested in getting loud and yelling at the TV should assemble on the couch. Because we are going to watch the last of this game, we do not care what any of you home rehab show loving freaks say. Besides, if you miss one home rehab show, just stay tuned. Four more annoying glamour whores will soon appear on the screen to cat fight and confuse bad taste with compassion.

Just relax. One thing about a Saturday night loiter, do not get the passions worked up. If somebody tries to get frisky with you simply pass a little gas to let others know the theme tonight - lazy. Because tomorrow night is the start of our six day commitment to social gadflying. Tonight the rest of the world can feast on our garbage. One night a week we leave the scraps to the madding crowd who think they are going out when they are only being moved around. Tonight we eat our vitamin and consume a week's worth of fat and catch up on the hot models on Sabado Gigante.

For tomorrow we descend back on the world, seeking blood and maybe a movie and a nice fish taco...

Lovers downtown lap of luxury getaway

Sponsored by the Society for Sustainable Freaking

Me and the beloved got a chance to snuggle in a high rise nooky nest this weekend. God bless the weekend snogging getaway. Because sometimes life starts to be about things other than getting it on with your lover. And really, hooking up with your love muffin is what life should be about.

Some like the country romance getaway. I for one advocate the sophisticated 'downtown is for lovers' shack up. Something about the sounds of sirens and construction noise conjure the lovemaking ritual. And if you keep the blinds open 300 floors worth of high rises can watch you get it on.

Something about a busy city downtown gets people horny. It is hard to discern why exactly. Maybe packing a lot of humanity in together stimulates the 'reproduce now' chemicals in our bodies. Whatever the reason, everybody is horny down here. The girl who works the register at Walgreens, the loud and frisky looking tourists, even the old ladies in wool coats carrying shopping bags. These downtown old ladies still know how to work it. They put strange thoughts in young men's heads.

The downtown 'love me down highrise hook up' should be about mixing it up. Why not snoggle on the table or while watching in the bathroom mirror or in the hallway by the elevator? Sometimes you get into a bit of routine at home. But with the blinds wide open couples can rekindle the devious imagination that first led you two to hook up in an alley the night you met.

Energetic boffling is fun, yes, let us not forget lazy cavorting. Nothing like lying in bed in a downtown highrise listening to the sounds of faraway bustle. Turn on the radio soft and take a nap and wake up to your lover doing stuff to you. Can you even bear to roll over and do it again? We simply cannot move a muscle. But we must. It is our duty.

You will need sustenance at some point. Should you shower before going out to dinner? No. Let crustifying love juices be your deodorant. I always recommend walking somewhere close to get food. People do not realize how depleted they get during a downtown 'julie brown MTV VJ hook up' session. You have lost precious and vital fluids. It is not dissimilar to donating a pint of fresh blood. Arm in arm couples should prop each other up and stagger to the nearest Chinese restaurant.

Why Chinese? The Chinese are extremely horny people. Their whole cuisine was developed to maintain high levels of specific nutrients necessary to getting it on tonight.

Or you can order in. Do not even leave the high rise. But unless somebody is bleeding after the lovemaking I recommend getting out for a bit. Because the world needs to smell love and what reeks of love more pungently than a couple shuffling towards the Chinese restaurant with gaping mouths and fuse blown eyes?

What should passengers on a bus do if they pass R. Kelly?

Yesterday while on the 66 bus we passed R. Kelly who was sitting in a parked car. What happened next is a case study on how you should deal with similar circumstances.

First, find out how expensive was the car in which R. Kelly was sitting.

Our bus driver immediately asked this to this guy getting on the bus (who had confirmed it was indeed R. Kelly sitting at the steering wheel.) We learned that it cost approximately 350,000 dollars.

If you are a teenage girl, beg your mom to exit the bus immediately and go and see R. Kelly.

These two teenage girls began doing this immediately after they realized we had passed R. Kelly.

If you are a mom and your teenage girls beg to get off the bus and see R. Kelly say, "Oh no," over and over while enduring whining and wheedling for six rush hour blocks.

On our bus, the mom of the teenage girls did not stop shaking her head for five minutes to emphasize that there was no way they were getting off the bus.

A smart aleck should make some sort of joke pertaining to R. Kelly.

I assumed this role, told the teenage girls that R. Kelly loves to get out of his car and sing songs to his fans who accost him on the street.

'White girls who like to talk black' should now bust it out, for everybody's listening pleasure.

The girl behind me, creamy complected, started talking about R. Kelly like she was his boo back when they were in the P.J.'s together. She also mentioned her ex-fiancee a lot too, so maybe she just had emotional problems.

An expert among the bus riders should be appointed. All disputed statements pertaining to R. Kelly should be directed to this one person.

Our bus elected the guy who spotted R. Kelly in the first place. He was a well proportioned young man in NFL approved wear. He became the hub of the buzz about R. Kelly shooting around the bus.

If you have a cell phone, now is the time to call friends and family about how you just saw R. Kelly in this unbelievable car.

This the teenage girls began to do. Thinking quick on their feet, they started making stuff up about R. Kelly to make the story better. They said they saw his hat and glasses and how he was jamming out to his own song and these huge bodyguards were in an SUV behind him...

After things have calmed down a little, take a moment to review some of R. Kelly's songs and dances.

Everyone on our bus practiced the 'step, step, side to side' move. Somebody remarked on how it is nice when a dance song includes the dance instructions right in the song. How true.

If you are a teenage girl this might be the time to tell your mom how unfair she is that she did not let you stop and bother R. Kelly.

This the teenage girls did.

And always remember, there will be differing opinions on R. Kelly and his spat with Jay-Z. Just because you know the details of the case intimately, having watched Celebrity Justice, and must listen to somebody who obviously knows nothing about it, still you should let people have their opinion, however misguided.

There will be people on the bus who know very little about R. Kelly. In rare instances there will be a person or two who know nothing at all about him. Make sure to speak loudly to educate the whole bus about your feelings and opinions regarding R. Kelly.

Upon exiting the bus make sure to wish your fellow R.-Kelly-encountering bus riders a very good evening. Like Haley's Comet, an event like this occurs all too infrequently. We must remember to remember it as best we can.

Memories of Girls I Fell In Love With In Spring

In first grade there was Kathy. She was a bossy wildflower in a stain proof dress. She had a certain way about her. She was an extremely fast runner. Faster than me anyway. But with her devious female ways she eventually let me win a race to boost my ego. Even though I knew she was letting me win, I still bragged to her I beat her. The concept of her being nice to make me feel good was so foreign to me. I was totally confused by it, and her, and so began to follow her around the playground like a shadow with untied shoe laces.

In the sixth grade there was Devon. She was quiet and demure but enjoyed what an idiot I made out of myself. She hated me at first, but when spring sprung her mood shifted. We sung songs together and she asked me about the time I snuck a beer. She was a funeral parlor owner's daughter, had an intimate relationship with the notion of rebirth. I kept asking this guy who lived near her what she was like. He kept saying why don't I come by his house, we'll find out. But I was too much of a wuss. Later that spring she was hanging around near one of my youth baseball games. I hit a double in her honor. She was so impressed by this that she stopped referring to me as, "Scum." This was my new nickname with the other girls.

In the 11th Grade there was Meg. She was a tall drink of water, smiling, desperate to rebel. We hooked up in the neighbor's house I was taking care of. For such a prim looking girl she had moves that were outright nasty. I fell in love with her instantly. But our spring love was prematurely cut back by her parents ubiquitous grounding of her to keep us apart. We were reduced to hooking up every 7th period in the dark room of the photo lab. I can attest that love does not grow under that sickly dim bulb illuminating a closet infused with photo developer chemicals. We drifted. It was tragic. Like pretty much everything in 11th grade.

Freshman year in college it was a foreign born princess called Hillary. She brought me to my knees in supplication and constant entreaty to get into her pants. This was when I learned how deadly love can be. Hence the maxim: 'Never fall in love after 18.' We would wrestle in her dorm bed until dawn. Up all night with it. She finally giving it up before it got too bright and her modesty was revealed to be a fierce demon lover. Fights were frequent and we insulted each other most horribly. But we were not yet experts at love so our salvos frequently misfired. There is too much to be said about this one. She would require a few hundred pages to get it right. Suffice to say: if you meet an 'old world' girl be prepared to play the game 'old world.'

After college it was a most metaphorically 'springtime' love affair. She was a wicked north country girl named Susan. I believed myself to be immune to her charms. I was wrong. We danced by ourselves in her stuffy apartment to the accompaniment of a boombox playing her mix. Later that night, much later, we made out, red lipstick smearing. I was toast. It was funny, because soon after that night I got very sick. I was layed up in bed for a week, unable to eat a damn thing without it hemorrhaging multi-orificial. Then on Easter Sunday, we went to dinner together. I still felt like death and had lost ten pounds. But I gorged myself on ham, potatoes in cream and cheese, asparagus, cake, ice cream and about 50 jelly beans. I was terrified afterwards what would happen to my body. But perhaps she put a spell on me because I kept it all down, literally the color returned to my cheek (My lips had started to turn blue.) We flopped down on my bed and she gave it up like nobody's business. I was shocked and awed by how scrumptious she was. Right then I knew, "Love is kind of crazy with a spooky little girl like you."

In our next edition of Spring Time Lovers: The 'round the way girl' and 'the coffee shop girl with far away eyes.'

Until then...open your blossom and let stingers tickle your pistils...

Society Wag Wandering - Sunday strollabout

Along the river we encounter couples and a few I-pod snoozers on park benches. It is the first day of daylight savings time, a day to celebrate around here. It is a veritable parade of couples along the promenade. We ascend up some stairs to get up and over the fancy shopping drag. Caution, around here it is treacherous with slow and witless tourists. We get across safely only to catch a pale man with a facial rash we used to have. We want to tell him about Elidel, worked great for us, but somehow these things are difficult to bring up, so we keep moving.

A woman wearing a dress that accentuates her ass so awestrikingly is encountered by a storefront bistro. It is funny because we are usually demure in such circumstances, give wide berth but this family got in between us and we had to pass directly behind her. As we glance down we recall the words of William Shakespeare:

"The sun has no luster whence I frolic in the abundance of your twin lit moons."

Or maybe that was Chester the Molester. We here at Society Wag have a crippling aversion to remembering who wrote what.

As we walk west we hit an industrial patch over a bend in the river. This stretch has no promenade, just efficient steel bridges and brown ripples in the water. Oh we forgot to mention, the first stretch of river we walked past, near the lake, reminds us: Beauty is never more generous then when water, sun and wind glitter most ostentatiously.

But back to the grittier part of town. Here we pass the Salvation Army hostel. A couple guys hanging out, smoking, a little agitated. Up at the six-way intersection we bear soft right. We must pass a flock of foreigners expunged from a tour bus. The men smoke these brown cheroots; the women wear stylish sunglasses and talk. We skirt past them, then under a train overhead. Then along a row of older storefronts, some rehabbed, some in 'original' condition. This produces in us that most complicated emotion, nostalgia.

The decorative tops of building facades angle against a blue sky. Offices unchanged for fifty years display sun blanched piles of fat folders. A blue balloon lurches into the street. Attached to a sign, it announces an open house. We remember other places like this. The cognitive dissonance of melancholy. Time lost on top of time now. Time now empty and imperturbable. We stagger alone and palely loitering over the interstate. 8 lanes of weekend traffic. It breaks the nostalgia spell with thoughts of the upcoming week.

We want to sneak into the tiny bar on the corner and talk with long lost friends about the upcoming baseball season, but we have found pit stops do not do justice to the Sunday walkabout. We must keep going, we cannot stop until we get a good lather. It was Nietzsche who said, the only thoughts worth keeping are those that come during a brisk trot.

We think it was him anyway. We are not thinking so much, but trying to soak it all in on a delicious sunny Sunday. Twice, actually, cars at intersections do not try and run us over, let us walk past. We pass an open green storefront church that has blessed a bunch of kids who tackle each other on the shady side of the street. We walk past young girls talking about 'this new girl at work' without much enthusiasm. We walk past a father and son, mother and daughter and mother and son. Never forget that most poignant, father and daughter.

Near home there seems to be a profusion of dogs. Couples with babies compete with couples with dogs for dominance. When we get to our house we notice the people across the street are trying to scale their stone house like Spiderman. We believe we have witnessed the first confirmed case of spring fever. An outbreak is sure to follow.

Basketball and beer equal lots of basketball experts

The final four has too many commercials and they discriminate against cheerleaders. Not all cheerleaders, just the uglier cheerleaders. Last night for instance, Michigan State's hotties received ample, indeed, even obsequious video time. The view from the low supplicant's angle was delicious. Yet where were the North Carolina cheerleaders? Unseen and unheard, they might as well been cheering at a Fallujah camel race for all the love they were getting.

I made a warm marina with bread dip for the final four party. It was just alright. It was a little messy and the marina gets very hot so when people took a bite, they tended to drop anything in their hands on the floor. I bought hummus but left it in the refrigerator. Also, I recommend no sauerkraut in anything unless there is a special gas dispensing area outside for methane filled guests.

We screamed, we shouted, but both games were blow outs at the end. No late game antics. People sat around and talked about the Pope and how you cannot say Final Four anymore on TV/radio without having to pay somebody. Same for super bowl, world series. Our friend who works at a radio station said they had a super bowl ticket giveaway and had to call it the big game giveaway. Reason 613 why the lawyers are, with every cease and desist, ruining everything decent in the world.

One would think that with so many of them planned, commercials would attempt to be mildly entertaining. Not so. Apparently cowed by the FCC or some such nonsense the endless beer commercials dispensed with humor and scantily clad women and decided on groggy-making. But maybe they were on to something. Because if you drink 5 beers and watch one of these commercials the grogginess emanating from TV commercial and you somehow meets and makes the message stick better.

For dessert we had homemade almond cookies, which were great but please do not bake too long or they get crumbs on everything.

Society Wag Wandering - adolescence renaissance

Dateline: High School Nostalgia

We enjoy going to get a quick beer with our high school friend. Because we know that 'quick beer' actually means eight beers and a fist fight or an indecent proposal later. We pop over to the local smoky taproom. Just us and the bartender for the first couple rounds. Our friend smokes and we are jealous but must admit, we feel so much happier now that we have given up the evil weed.

How many times can high school friends tell the same story before we get bored of it? If we are in the story, never. So we reminisce a bit. About the time we were drunk and driving, that party where we were drunk and abusing people and when we were drunk and driving and throwing up while driving.

Then our high school friend demands we confess all our problems. We do in such a way as to mitigate the intermittent periods of institutionalization, incarceration and other assorted incapacitation. High school friends really make one dish. We almost want to disclose a recent sex fantasy of a disturbing nature. Decide to wait until a little bit later.

High school friends never seem to want to go home. This is why we chose them to be our friends in the first place. Why go home when there are more beers to drink, smokes to smoke and the bartender finally puts on some better music? We are at one of those unrepentant boho bars where there is usually good art on the walls, but the music can get a little 'indulgent.'

We see the owner of this bar. Have not seen her in awhile. She is with a couple people and they all look to be injured. One guy has a walker, a lady has a limp. Do bar owners and their friends lead more injury prone lives? We believe yes.

Now comes the love life confessions part of the evening. We listen to and tell about recent conquests, screw ups, fast encounters and what we sniff around now. We ask our friend how many dates before the love is typically given up. Our friend says it is all about how you feel, but err on the side of caution because sometimes you give it out and people get real mad when you cut them off.

It is sad, but our high school friend now has other friends, and so do we. We cannot hang out with the same group of delinquents every day forever. Can we? No, we go out into the world and meet other freaks. And sometimes, if we have a little mojo going, at the bar we will see our friend from work and our friend will see work friends. So we are sitting at the bar. More people start coming in. We have already insulted the bartender's musical taste. Thank god he is about to get replaced. The service has deteriorated markedly.

Then this lunatic we know from work shows up. He just finished a very long day, gets a beer. He buys us a beer. He wants to know all about our high school friend. Our high school friend has a special way. This way attracts a lot of people. Unstable people with delusions of grandeur are especially attracted to our high school friend. This guy is no different. He has a notebook full of cryptic drawings. Our high school friend demands to see them. For the moment he is shy, will not give up the goods.

Then our high school friend's friends from work show up. We intermingle. It turns out that our high school friend's best friend from work also carries a notebook full of strange and disturbing drawings. He is a lot more forthcoming about showing them and we behold something quite rare, a real artist. We cannot believe how good this guy is. He does these naked female figures in odd positions. They wear masks and their hair looks to be made out of a mop. We keep saying, "This shit is good." We make everyone around us look at them.

This makes the other guy open up his notebook. He specializes in nice colors and naively rendered bugs. We like it. The place has filled up now. Friends of the friends of friends join in. We get a lurching cluster of about 10. We are a very loud and thirsty group. Somebody starts finishing every sentence with, "...you filthy whore." Like, "Get me a beer you filthy whore." We think back to those drunken party high school nights and darned if we have not recreated it. A little bit. In high school a girl would be crying and one of the guys would be unconscious.

Like old party pros, at just the right time we and our high school friend make eye contact. It is time to split. Always leave at the party top. Not that we are going to stop partying. We will find other mischief to get into, as long as that mischief involves contraband and cigarettes. We accept business cards and make tenuous promises of future meetings with the people we just met.

We stagger outside. We have been in that place a little while. It is fun nipping out to get a quick beer with our high school friend.

I have seen fear at the scuzzy diner

Why am I afraid of scuzzy diners with freaks loitering in them? It is unwarranted. I always have a good time at such places. Take today for instance. I met a person at this snack shop diner in the scuzzy neighborhood. I was early. I sat at a booth by myself. A junkie couple and their seemingly straight daughter (cousin?) loitered by the door. He had dirty blue ink done on his hands. His 'wife' had that junkie sand blasted look on her face. But the girl they were with seemed straight. I was confused, then frightened.

After they left my fear did not abate. For I noticed strange and twisted souls slumped on the counter. A man, alone in the booth behind me frowned in a tabloid. Through the window I witnessed shambling oddly shaped urchins. Then the junkie guy was seen again in the window. I was terrified he might re-enter, but he staggered around the corner. Off to god knows where.

The menu was frightening. It felt ancient and indigestible. The owner was frightening. A long, lean old man the color of cold veal. The waitresses were frightening. Uniformed women without mercy. All the people in the booths were frightening. Local indigents perhaps carrying communicable illness.

Then the person I was to meet arrived. He was long and gangly and strung out from too much time in front of a computer. The waitresses all talked to him. They wanted to know why don't he come for breakfast anymore? He replied that now he drinks coffee and freaks out at home in the mornings. Our waitress arrived smiling. She was round and robust and my fear turned to wonder at her rude ruddy health. Cigarette teeth notwithstanding.

The guy I was with talked a lot. He nattered on and I leaned back in the booth and took it all in. The fear was still there, yes, the owner still scared me, but something else began to assemble itself. Outside a train passed over the street, cops on the corner shook somebody down, two round young girls sauntered by. Inside a woman who resembled my insane aunt kept looking at me. I smiled at her. She exhaled her smoke and grimaced back. Other people looked at me as I was looking at them. The place really crams in the booths, everybody was checking out their booth buddies. It dawned on me. This was where freaks go to check each other out. See what the freak community is up to.

I sighed, the guy I was with ordered the potted meat special. I ordered the chicken salad sandwich, fries, cup soup and coffee special. The waitress refilled my coffee, water. She had her act together. I watched the owner watching the kitchen, manning the cash register and checking the entrance for whatever might crawl in next. I stopped fearing him. It became totally clear why he had skin the color of aged pork. He had the most stressful job in the city. Then I noticed he was wearing one of those boat shaped paper hats. Fear him? I loved him.

The sun popped out momentarily. I know, it sounds made up, but it was a blustery late March day and the sun finally climbed out of the clouds and lit up the cops loitering on the corner. They looked like they were taking their time collaring this one. I could not see who the perps were, they were hidden out of window view.

The food came and it was great. Chicken salad on white toast, greasy barley soup, fat soaked french fries. Afterwards we were bold enough to order dessert, which proved to be a bit of a reach as the peach pie was a gelatinous mess that made me a little afraid again.

By the time the check came I was so filled with good vibrations I paid for lunch. Which, in terms of picking up the bill, a diner check is definitely the one to pick up. Yes, I must admit the potted meat special with canned corn in a clotting gravy might be an entrée to avoid. But the scuzzy diner was really a trip worth making. I must remember not to be afraid of it. I will not worry if the man in the John Deere cap keeps staring at me, or if the old lady sees me and shouts, "That's the one," or if the owner entreats me while I pay the check in a language not heard since the late 1600's.

The scuzzy diner always takes you there, and the special always comes with cup soup.