My pal, Mapstew, threw these questions over the pond some time ago but life got in the way and I haven’t had an opportunity to answer them until just now. Sorry for the delay, sir.

1. Why did you start blogging?

For the money. And the chicks.

2. If you could travel anywhere in the world, with no restrictions on cost, where would it be, and why?

My gut answer was London because I love that town. But Mrs. Wife and I could use a friggin’ break so I’m going to say one of the Caribbean islands. Have you ever been down there? It’s other-worldly. The color palate is like nothing you’ve ever seen before in nature.

3. Did you have a teacher in school that had a great influence on your life? If so, what?

No. Not one. I floated through high school like a wisp of steam. That was the extent of my formal education. There was a Lieutenant Commander in the Coast Guard named Kent Mathews who was the only person who ever showed what can be considered a fatherly interest in me. Not even my own Da could be bothered.

4. If you could spend the day with a famous person, who would it be, and what would you do?

I’d like to go to Central Park on a balmy summer afternoon and sit on one of the big rocks by the 59th Street entrance and have a chat with Jesus Christ. I’d ask him, “Are you really the son of God?” I’d ask if he really did rise from the dead and if so, why didn’t he show himself to the masses? It would have made things a hell of a lot easier for a lot of people. Then I’d ask him to perform one miracle; get someone to pay me to write so I can stop this goddamn daily commuting. Oops. Sorry, JC.

5. Toilet paper—over or under?

Over. And, yes, it matters to me. So much so that I change it when it’s under.

6. Name one thing in your life that you would do over if possible.

I think I’d relive the six years I spent in the Coast Guard. It was, pound-for-pound, the most satisfying job I‘ve ever had. It was a blast! I couldn’t believe they were paying me! I was on a search and rescue team for a bit and had a hand in saving some lives. More than once! You can’t imagine the god-like feeling you get when you pull someone out of the ocean who would have died if you hadn‘t showed up. The look of gratitude on their face can’t be described.

7. Tell us about your pets, if any.

We have a fish named Dennis. Mrs. Wife and I pray nightly for his longevity because The Daughters have gotten it into their heads that once Dennis dies, we’re getting a cat. I think they want to work their way up the evolutionary ladder.

8. Do you live in a small town or a large town?

C’mon. Are you kidding? I’m in THE large town.

If Oprah Winfrey married Deepak Chopra, she’d be Oprah Chopra.

Tee-hee.

That’s my all-time favorite metaphor for something really bad happened. An elephant stepped on my guitar. Isn’t that just beautifully descriptive? Well, an elephant stepped on my guitar and it wasn’t your run-of-the-mill-I-dropped-my-phone-in-the-pool-again thing. I didn’t feel much like writing. Or reading blogs. Or sleeping. Or eating.

But in the midst of the strum und drang, a couple of really nice things happened. First, I received a few “are you okay?” emails from some of you. Others posted a “where the fuck are you” comment. (Not those exact words, perhaps, but that’s the spirit of the messages.) Thank you all for your concern. It’s meaningful to me and I’ll never forget it.

Here’s another really nice thing that happened to me over the last two weeks while the walls were on fire. Last June, I was contacted by the editor of an online literary publication in Chicago. He is a regular reader here. His site has been around for a few years and it was due for a retooling. As part of the relaunch, he asked me if I was interested in writing a monthly column on rare books. First I said yes and then I went through the “I’m not smart enough, good enough, etc., etc.” guilt trip that I usually lay on myself. Then I grew some hair on my sack, sat down and banged out a column. It was easy! The damn thing practically wrote itself! The site just relaunched. It’s the world famous Undie Press and my column is called Books You Cannot Read.

I’m from Ohio. We frown on any type of self-congratulatory behavior. We consider it undignified and déclassé. We believe in modesty. But I’m going to go out on a dangerous limb and say that I’m really pleased with my first attempt. I invite to you hop over and have a look. It’s a quick read and it’s a pretty good show, if you don’t mind my saying so. Plus, you’ll get to see my real name. How‘s that for incentive, bitches? No stalking, please.

I’m WAY behind on my theater posts. The season is well underway. Thank you all, again. I wish I could find the right words.

I’ve written about this dump before. When I visit my family in Cleveland, I always make a point to stop in for a few beers at The Suburban Inn on Bagley Road. It’s a cinder block building in a parking lot right next to a Shell gas station. “Bar” is too nice a name for it. “Bar” implies warmth and hospitality. Like on Cheers. If you’re in an establishment that only serves the kind of vodka that will give you a pounding headache and the floor is sticky and the air smells like stale beer, what would you call that? Purgatory? I like it.

When you open the door you’re hit with a massive billow of cigarette smoke—it’s like walking into a gas chamber—and a warning. The State of Ohio has outlawed smoking in bars but the proprietors of the Suburban Inn don’t give a damn what the State of Ohio says. A hand lettered sign cautions:

I always thought the sign was a joke amongst the employees. The Law couldn’t possibly give a shit about a dive like The Suburban Inn? Could they? On the contrary. I read in an Ohio newspaper that the The Suburban Inn has amassed a whopping $49,000 in fines for smoking violations that they steadfastly refuse to pay. The most in Ohio! You go girl!

The law doesn’t know the half of it. Do you guys know what these are? They’re called pull tabs. This is the front.

Good thing The Man doesn’t read my blog, eh?