Socks to be you

Astute readers of this blog, assuming that I have any, have surely noticed that I haven't been posting for a while. For like three weeks, actually.

Why not, Anthony? I can hear you saying. Is there something wrong? Can we help in any way?

First off, let me say that I am fine. Rumors that I have been in Switzerland to get a total blood transfusion are false, no matter what you may have heard elsewhere. Nor have I gotten into any legal trouble.

I have been away for a very good reason. A few weeks ago, I learned that a close friend of mine was ill, very ill indeed. I canceled all my commitments and immediately took the next flight out so I could be by his side. I tried to get him the best medical care available. Experimental treatments did prolong his life for a few days, but ultimately ol' Killy McGee had his way, as he always does, and about ten days ago, the best friend I ever had left this earth.

I speak, of course, of Socks the Cat, or as he was known to his closest friends, STC.

STC had cancer of the jaw, which made it nearly impossible for him to drink his daily saucer of beer. After consulting with Bill, Hillary, and Chelsea Clinton, as well as Socks's last owner (as if anyone could own such a magnificent, free-thinking animal) Betty Currie, we decided to put Socks down. And after we put him down, we picked him up again, and drove him to a veterinarian, who injected him with a massive shot of phenobarbital, in honor of Abbie Hoffman, whose life was an inspiration to STC since his kitten days.

After a tasteful cremation ceremony, we scattered Socks's ashes over Wrigley Field, as per his frequent request.

Those of us who knew and loved Socks the Cat, and we are legion, will never forget that amazing feline and his many contributions to our civic life. We will not know his like again.

RIP, STC.

Bong hits 4 Phelps

Rodney Balko, also known as The Agitator, wrote the letter that he wishes Michael Phelps had written. Here's an excerpt:

I’ll apologize when the sons, daughters, and nephews of powerful politicians who get caught possessing or dealing drugs in the frat house or prep school get the same treatment as the no-name, probably black kid caught on the corner or the front stoop doing the same thing.

Until then, I for one will have none of it. I smoked pot. I liked it. I’ll probably do it again. I refuse to apologize for it, because by apologizing I help perpetuate this stupid lie, this idea that what someone puts into his own body on his own time is any of the government’s damned business. Or any of yours.

Here's the whole thing.

I myself smoked pot only one time: the time between 1975 and 1987. But even though it's been more than 21 years since I've taken a toke (inhaling secondhand smoke at a Neil Young concert simply does not count, even if I did have to lean in a little to get some), I think it's insane that it's against the law to smoke some kind herb, while it's perfectly legal to buy, for about $20, enough booze to get two or three people completely shitfaced.

Slammed

"Which one of you assholes ordered the free Grand Slam? Oh, that's right. All of you did."

Since I don't get high any more, I don't have any reason to eat at Denny's. But today they were giving away free Grand Slam breakfasts (two pancakes, two eggs, two sausage links, two strips of bacon) between the hours of 6 AM and 2 PM, so I thought what the hell, I'm always up for some free cholesterol early in the morning.

This morning I got up early and swung by the home of my colleague Randal Graves, who is also a mooch of some reknown, and we drove to the nearest Denny's, the one mentioned in this story. We got there at 6:15 AM. I figured that there would be no line at that unholy hour.

I figured wrong. As we pulled into the parking lot we could tell that the place was hopping. When we drove alongside the place, we could see that all the tables and booths were filled, and a line had formed. There was no way we were going to get served and still make it to work on time.

"Fuck this," one of us said. Okay, it was me. I said it. We decided to abandon our free Grand Slam dream and went to eat breakfast at a local diner instead. It was good, but it wasn't free. It wasn't even cheap, for that matter. We made it to work on time, though.

Randal and I tried and we failed, and as Homer Simpson taught us long ago, the lesson is: never try. I can't speak for Randal, but from now on I'm sticking with my usual breakfast: a cup of coffee and a piece of beef jerky. Believe me, there's no better way to start the day.