Bitchin' Lemons

My friend, D (aka JD), just moved to Madison from Chicago to sort of “be there” for his friend who’s in jail (long story). Anyway, when he first arrived, he thought Madison had a lot of crime and gang activity. He kept seeing people running down the street and just generally running around town. Then his friend told him that these people actually do it on purpose. He couldn’t believe no one was chasing them and that they choose to run on their own. I told him it’s called exercise. He thought it was super bizarre. It’s gonna take him awhile to get used to small towns. I had a similar experience when I moved to Madison and saw everyone walking in the same direction during the Farmer’s Market. That was really weird. Then I went up to Paul Soglin, who happened to be at the Farmer’s Market one Saturday, and he was wearing jeans and a t-shirt just saying hi to people. I was with my friend, P, and I shook his hand and said, “Aren’t you that weather guy on Channel 7?” He laughed and told me he was the mayor. I sort of looked around and asked him where his mayor “posse/security” dudes were, and he said he didn’t have any. That was the craziest thing I ever heard – a mayor with no security?? Dick Daley would never go for that. Crazy town.

Once again I had too much to drink Saturday night. I’m blaming it on N’s lethal margaritas. I’ve got to stop hanging out with these people who insist on getting me drunk every time I see them, and then all the librarian potty mouth shit just starts pouring out of me like a frickin’ fountain! Nuts.

Okay, I submitted my story, “Granny has curls,” so we’ll see if it gets accepted. It’s my first creative piece of writing – very conversationally-essay-type thing. What really pissed me off is that the very same day I submitted my story, my Vogue subscription arrived in the mail and what did I find in there? A story called “Granny takes a trip.” Okay, not really the same content, but close! Frickin’ Vogue posse bastards taking my story idea. Crazy fashionistas.

Only three more weeks before I’m basking in the sun in Key Largo at the posh resort (thanks to mom’s rich friends) with L. Can’t wait. I’m gonna collect shells and make a seashell frame and give it to the German for Christmas. He’ll like that. Especially if I can find a radioactive shell that he can explore with his Geiger counter (he has three by the way).

I totally dig that Google translator. It’s a riot. Here’s the translated text for an Italian lemon torte recipe:

“To spread the paste of one thickness of 1/2 centimeter and to foderare one stamp having cure to hold the high edges in a blink - to pour the cream to you to the lemon - to guarnire with the striscioline of paste - put into an oven all in the furnace preriscaldato to 180° for 45/50° in snow pasted to men.”

Good times.