Yesterday, Löwenbräu spent several minutes telling a wandering story, the point of which was this: he signed an e-mail "the prodigal editor."
This, he clearly felt, was the funniest thing he had ever done.
"See what I did there? It's like the prodigal son," he announced. "You know that story, don't ya?"
None of us have ever been to church, Löwenbräu. We are completely ignorant of Western culture -- the parables of Jesus are more obscure than Welsh-language zydeco
Good name for a band: Sticky Buttons
Last night I dreamt that an ex-girlfriend showed up at my door and begged me to take her back. I have this dream from time to time -- it's one of my favorites. It is not so much about the rejection of any one person as it is about my being able to reject them; the Ex-Girlfriend is usually a strange amalgam of women who have been foolish enough to go out with me (Irish-American face, Turkish ass, etc.).
In the dream, Ex-Girlfriend is inconsolable in her grief and desperation to get me back.
"Come on, now," I say. "You're making yourself look foolish."
"I don't care," she wails, crumbling into me, her tears soaking my shirt. "Everything turned out alright for you, but I... I am just stuck. Please. We could be so good together now, you'll see..."
"No. I'm married. I'm happy."
"No. You're making a scene. Get up off the floor. Come on, get up."
On it goes for a while and in the morning I wake up feeling like my heart is made of sunshine.
Of course, the odds of this actually happening are only slightly worse than the odds of the U.S. government suddenly deciding to allocate $4 million a year for my personal use. But a lad can dream.
Oh, blimey. There are just so many things wrong with this picture.
Home sweet bus. Speaking of which, London's iconic double-decker Routemaster buses will be officially retired on Friday.
*Yes, I realize that the story of the prodigal son is not the story of Joseph, but the headline made me laugh.