The Return Of What Once Was

I was staring at the marquee of the Aragon theater as it flashed "Miller Time: 3:14, Miller Temp 22", as I waited for a bus which after twenty minutes I was pretty sure only existed in the imagination of the Mexican man leaning on the Red Eye box next to me. This was all after about an hours worth of waiting for trains with drunk Indian men, drunk college students with sandwiches who wouldn't stop talking about how much they were in love with their sandwiches, and a different set of drunk college students who thought it would be a good idea to toss a traffic cone across the El tracks, and then sit and dangle their legs over the edge like they were fishing in Mayberry. All of this, by the way, occurred the night before the Bears won the NFC Championship - this was just the unprovoked, normal amount of drunken revelry you'll find in the city on a Saturday night. As I finally gave in and started to hail a cab, I just kind of looked around and thought... hmm, I'm back in Chicago.

Which means I'll start writing in here again, if you still care to read. I felt kind of lazy while I was home, so lazy in fact, rather than explain why I didn't write in my blog, I'll let Michael Showalter do it. He basically sums it all up in a funnier way than I can. Also, he talks of shitting his pants in the Berkshires, something I think we can all relate to. Or at least I can. Also check out Showalter going all Charlie Rose on Zach Galifianakis' ass in the Michael Showalter Showalter. Watch him grill the bearded one about such pressing questions as "Seriously, you owe me some gas money."