Dear Brett,

It was a veritable orgasm of bad timing, as Kent Brockman would say. I arrived at the State Street parking garage just as Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker was letting out across the street; so, standing there in the stagnant, exhaust-filled air and surrounded by thousands of Nut-cracked Wisconsoners drooling and babbling in their grossly oversized pollution boxes, I let out a quick cry of, "DAMN YOU AGAIN KALI! PIXEL!!", before turning from the catastrophe and walking my way here, to Paul's Club.

I dod not get the bubblegum beer this time, instead opting for something with an 'X' in its name; it's no Angelic brew nor even a chai tea, but the bartender is lovely as she hangs silver ornaments and plastic white snowflakes off of the big Tree, and the glitter of them all as they turn turn turn up there moved by the gentle suggestion of her chaotic hand reminds me of the shimmer of you and I laughing right through the black heart of a self-imposed "shopping day," and, for this, I smile and raise my beer.

(I will try my best to maintain said smile when next I face Kali in the garage and Pixel a-lurk in my home. Wish me luck, old sock.)

-TM

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