When I hear of a celebrity’s texted/twittered penis pic, I usually check it out. Sure, you can call me names, but I think you’re probably checking too. Greg Oden, Santonio Holmes, and now Anthony Weiner, covered though it was with stylish drawers. I’m a lightweight-expert at public figures who are just a little too proud of their wangs.

(I will say that I didn’t check out Brett Favre’s penis pic. As I understand it, it was just a picture of a tiny flaccid old man penis. If I want to see that, all I have to do is mount a mirror behind the toilet in my bathroom at home.)

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One recent Saturday, I went to the meat counter at Whole Foods to get a particular cut of tenderloin. It’s my favorite cut of meat, and judging by the cost, it’s the favorite of other people as well.

The man helping me had to go break out a giant beef loin, trim away the fat, and cut out the center for me. While all this was going on, I had to wait. I looked at the chickens, counted the variety of sausages, and stared at my feet. Then, I noticed sausage samples sitting on the counter under a lamp.

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On Sunday morning, I found myself in a half-awake, half-asleep dream. The premise of the dream was that somehow over the years, the traditions associated with Easter and the ones associated with Thanksgiving had become confused. And so I could see it clearly, I was there at Christ’s crucifixion.

What actually happened wasn’t as it’s spelled out in the gospels. Actually, Jesus’s dead body was laid on a table, and it began changing into a Thanksgiving feast. Some attendees started praying, while I and others of my ilk (not sure what my role was, exactly) started to eat. I might have even wondered who the Lions were playing.

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I woke up Vanya this morning. He started to talk on the way down the stairs.

“Is it camp today?”

“Yeah, baseball camp, I think.”

“Well, we need to go to the snack store and get marshmallows.”

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Here’s a tip for you young people: if you don’t know the words to “Everybody Wang Chung Tonight,” then don’t walk around singing it out loud.

Monday night, I was sitting at a bar with Mrs. theskinnyonbenny. We were around the back side, where staff walked to get back to the kitchen. One of the waiters passed behind us, singing along with the speakers. He clearly reversed the “Everybody have fun tonight” and the “Everybody Wang Chung tonight” lines. It’s not like those are unimportant lines. In fact, I couldn’t tell you any other line in the song, but I wouldn’t botch those.

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I’m sure that everyone has had the fantasy of a gadget that would change the traffic lights from red to green as they pulled up to the intersection.

I didn’t know it until today, but there actually is such a thing.

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Friday night, we went to a fundraising event at the Museum of the American Cocktail. Mrs. theskinnyonbenny has been a member of the museum for some time, and I was glad to get a chance to go.

On the way in, I asked what the fundraiser was for.

“The museum itself.”

Oh. Fuck Japan, Tuscaloosa, and our neighbors about to be flooded out by diverted Mississippi water. We have American Cocktails to honor.

I’ve called Mrs. theskinnyonbenny a cocktail nerd many, many times, and I’ll use it here, so I don’t want to give the impression that I mean it as an insult. Over the years, my opinion of the top-tier bartenders has gone from indifference, to admiration, to full-out fanboy. I don’t seek out the famous/creative bartenders in other cities yet, but that would be the last step to becoming a cocktail nerd myself.

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For the past week or so, I’ve been blowing giant boogers.

I’m not sure what it is. Maybe a little touch of a cold. I’ve also been getting nosebleeds, so they’re dark with clotted blood. In fact, I have a lot of trouble blowing the boogers out without starting a new nosebleed. That leads to new dried giant boogers. It’s a disgusting cycle that I can’t seem to shake.

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