The Life Of A Rodeo Clown Is A Painful & Solitary Existence

I’m living the worst cliché as I type this—my home Internet is down (’twas seized by evil spirits last night at the stroke of 6:45), so the offices of JG2 have been temporarily moved to the coffee shop down the street. It’s actually a coffee shop/bar, which means the interior lighting is permanently set to “mild depression” and there’s more than one shady character slumped in the kitschy recesses of the lounge area trying to avoid the blinding midday sun. Paging Wallace Beery…

Not that my unshowered mass is any better. I’m not even wearing underwear, for the love of Norman Fell. Still, I’m a freelance writer, in Brooklyn, staring intently at a Mac screen in a coffee shop. Somewhere in Kansas right now, a trucker’s ulcer just flared up something fierce.

In other news, Conrad Bain is still alive. Who’da thunk it?