The Cable Guy & The Foghorn Toast
unrelated stories

Today I worked from home, waiting for the cable guy. Troubleshooting client problems without a modem to even see what he was talking about... I walked him through the backend by memory. We got it all squared away with help from Shawn and ancillary help from Tiss, Hoov, and Sir Chest. Thanks guys.

The cable guy finally got here and I had to laugh. While they were making sure that my settings were right for the internet, the Cable Guy had the tv on in the background and I found it most annoying. I wonder, how many people order cable and then ask for the tv to be promptly turned off? [insert chagrin look]. Yet, I am addicted to S&TC and would go down to the corner to score if that was what it would take. But instead all I gotta do is one call to my dealer, the Cable Guy, and the deal is good as done.

An speekina addictions...

Great book reading right now, via Stephen in Santa Cruz who passed on The Frozen Addicts. He'd given it to me a month ago, but in my agitated state of unrest (read disorganized and flummoxed) I had forgotten to read it. I was reminded, not so bluntly, to get my butt in gear. So the gear's been butted and the book is really good. Plus I'm relearning all kinds of terms from my junior college biology class. Neuropeptide. Dendrill. Polyphenalmarzipan. Etc.

FOGHORN/FOGPORN TOAST
aka, Patty's last toast

Every Monday night at ye ol' Spike's brew pub is Foghorn night.

For those not in the know, Foghorn is a deliciously dark yet fruity beer that has so much alcohol content they cannot call it beer and instead is called Barleywine.

I love barleywine.

It turns out that Spike's in my little ol' cowpoke of a hometown is the number one seller of Foghorn in California. Nope, not just California, but the West Coast. And no no my friends, not just the West Coast but East of the Mississippi. (Number two in the nation, in fact, second only behind some barleywinepushing-speakeasy in NYC, but I digress.)

Patty (that's actually Patricia to you and me) began the Foghorn toast 45 weeks ago. I'm not sure exactly how the revelries began, as I am a latecomer to all the brouhaha. But every Monday night at nine you were invited to write your own toast (to Foghorn). Patty climbed ontoppa the bar and told everyone to shut the fuck up as she read each toast out load. Glasses were raised and hoots and hollers were heard and more Foghorn was poured and everyone left happy.

The last Monday of the Month was designated Fogporn with toasts to match.

Tonight was Patty's last night (and the last night of the month — ahem) at the Foghorn Toast helm as she is moving, tomorrow, to the City by the Bay. The place was packed and rockin' and most showed up dressed to thrill, Fogporn in mind.

Too bad Patty's leaving. I mean, good for her and all, but too bad for us and too bad for Spikes and too bad for SLO Town. That girl is one of kind, and so, we lift our glasses to toast to San Francisco, new home of the Foghorn Toastette.

Me, I stayed as long as I could, which was 25 minutes longer than I said I would... but my addiction called and I had to high-tail it outta there and do that Marathon-Olympic-style race walk in mid-height-heels to get home in time for you-know-what. Okay, maybe that was a slight exaggeration but I made it from Spikes (lower-downtown) to the railroad district in less than ten minutes.

It was worth it all around. All of it.

NEXT UP: STAY TUNED: where in the world in emdot living??? film at 11.

(shouts out to KB and Sir Bret -- who are, as I type, high in the sky going southward heading for the land of sheep and greenery.)