Other somethings I forgot to tell you, internets:
I hope to never again in my lifetime go to a funeral where someone tells me "I'll be home again for Christmas, we should get together. I'll message you over MySpace." Also, they said this twice.
Blink. Blink blink.
My car repairs may require me to sell platelets on the dark, sour streets. I'll never have nice things again. I'll be sure to keep you posted on my money-raking schemes. (PS: I'm an AB-, very rare, if you're in the market.)
The Nabob is on hiatus. He is a very busy man. He has a BLACKBERRY, people. V. Important. Will return soon.
I used to think that if you put America in a Bunsen burner and cooked it down to its most fundamental essence, that you would have Las Vegas. But now I think that really, you just get The Cheesecake Factory. The faux-fanciness, with all the insane "Italian" "frescos" + the strange faux-familiarity between the customers and the waiters + the planet-sized portions + the creepy classical music + the awesome clientele wearing their dress-up outfits (girls: fluttery skirts, strappy-strap heels, skin cancer; boys: shirts tucked in) and clutching their vibotron-table-alert beepers for hours upon hours as they eagerly await a table -- it's like an underground railroad beamed them in from some Los Angeles prom and dropped them off right there at the Factory gate + the name itself, which sounds like a euphemism for something bad that happens in your pants or womb + the fact that there are twenty-five different cheesecakes, which is beyond all sanity + a full bar = one soaring American eagle of a restaurant. -- Evany Thomas
Halloween Costume: Zombie Condi.