. . . if people who wind up at this stupid journal do so because they mistake “phalluses” for “fallacies”? It might explain some of the Google searches that lead people here, which I’m too well-bred to share just now.

Land sakes, it’s been a dog’s age since I updated this thing. I think I need to develop a habit of writing when I’m not at work — any available slack time has just about evaporated. They’re letting us out early today to get a head start on Columbus Day weekend, however, and after a Portuguese beer with lunch, I’m not so inclined to dive into any new tasks.

Besides work, I haven’t been lolling in a silk peignoir and popping bonbons, mais non. Why, Tuesday morning I awoke thinking for some strange reason about Marge Schott, and how her name is a sentence. In the shower and on the way to work, I thought of a whole bunch more famous people whose names are subject-verb. I thought I’d send my fairly long list to McSweeney’s, but on second inspection it’s really not all that interesting — I’m not sure why it cracked me up so earlier this week.

Last night some friends and I hung out at the B-Side Lounge for a few hours after work. Rebecca came into town, and I was able to entice Judi, Laura, Ezra and Terri, and D-boy to join in. I love that place — somehow they managed to maintain some ghostly, sour-Pabst essence of the Windsor Tap, the dive that was there before. It’s dark, the waitresses are friendly and cute, the food is really good, the drinks are reasonable, and no one tries to rush you out. If you’re the type who likes hard-boiled eggs (I’m not; to me they smell like sulfur), there’s a wire rack of them on the bar.

Oh, I also got my hair cut without telling anyone. Saucy!

I’m not sure what’s going on this weekend. We might hit up the Somerville Arts Council pancake breakfast tomorrow at the Nave Gallery. But since we get to leave work early, I’m heading to the Burren for a pint with Cat and Nicole.