The events in New Orleans have been a terrible tragedy. That being said…
I think this billboard for Southern Comfort at the corner of Halsted and Brompton has taken on a whole new meaning.

Last night my mom called me up.
“Hey J.” “Hey mom.”
My mom then informed me that she was really cool. “I just wanted to let you know how cool I was,” she said. I was curious. “Why are you so cool? I mean, besides the obvious reasons,” I quickly covered.
“I just subscribed to Netflix,” she tells me. “Woooww,” I say. “You are pretty cool.”
In the past few years my mom has done some pretty “cool” things. She got a cell phone. She got one of the new Volkswagen Bugs. I think she even met Billy Joel once. If that’s not “cool” I don’t know what is. But the Netflix…that might have just pushed her over the edge.
“You’re pretty cool mom,” I tell her. “Thanks J,” she said. “I know.”

The Holiday Club is a hip joint. They have turquoise and pink color schemes. There’s pictures of Old Blue Eyes and Dino on the walls. They even have a jukebox to play some swingin’ tunes. Plus, they have a photo booth.
Every time Kami and I go there we feel obligated to use it. And every time we use it we feel that a strip of photos isn’t any fun unless you come up with a “gimmick” for at least the first photo.
Top photo: How long has that been in the fridge?!

Top photo: These tax forms don’t seem right!

Top photo: NO I will not go to prom with you! As if!

It really is a swingin’ place.

The two people who live below me have the last names Hastings and Cummings. I noticed this on the mailboxes the other day.
Is it just me or do they sound like the co-hosts of a Sunday morning political debate show on the BBC?
Hastings: Parliament has been wickedly lopped as of recent. Do you concur?
Cummings: I concur whole heartedly my dear Hastings.
Hastings: Right-oh! Fancy some tea then?
Cummings: Hmm, yes. Quite right.
Ah, Hastings and Cummings. I can see it now.

Lately my body has been waking me up earlier and earlier. Monday I woke up at 8. Tuesday I woke up at 7. Today I woke up at 6.
I don’t know what my body is trying to pull, but it’s not going to get away with it.
Then, as my body is being handcuffed and hauled away by the police it’ll say, “And I would have gotten away with it too if it wasn’t for you pesky kids!”
Evidently my body is an episode of Scooby Doo. I think this is definite sign I need more sleep.
…Also, thinking about my cheese blog from the other day, I’ve decided to relaunch bergwithcheese. Enjoy.

I have a giant pair of flip flops. No, correction: I had a giant pair of flip flops. They’re gone now.
Several years ago there was a promotion at the bar Micah works at, wherein Micah was going to give away a giant pair Mike’s Hard Lemonade flip flips to the person who drank the most Mike’s Hard Lemonade. It came down to Jason and I. Jason ended up drinking more Mike’s than I did. He also ended up getting violently ill. And of course, Jason ended up winning the giant flip flops.
Then, about six months ago, when Jason moved to New York, he decided to give the flip flops to me. Evidently giant flip flops are hard to pack. So for the past six months they’ve been sitting next to my front door. And that’s about it.
Then, the other day, Micah said, “I think it’s time for the flip flops to go.” And that was that.
So yesterday, slinging the flip flops over my shoulder and walking them down Broadway, I took them to an eBay drop off store, where you can conveniently drop off your crap and they’ll sell it for you.
Want to buy my giant flip flops? Check them out on eBay.
We’ll see. If nobody bids on them they’ll be coming back to my hallway next to the front door. I may have a giant pair of flip flops again.

At work we have a shelf in one of the bar coolers where we keep food in case we get hungry. On any given night it will hold things like bread, cheese, meat, Oreos, chocolate bars, and potato chips. It is sometimes referred to as The Grocery Store.
Last night, in a fit of hunger, I ate a slice of cheese. An individually wrapped slice of cheese. American cheese.
As if America doesn’t have a bad enough rap already, we have to produce the most processed, worst tasting cheese in the world. And of course it has to be called American.
“This cheese is sinking our reputation,” I tell Nathan at work. “Yeah,” he says, “because our country is doing so great otherwise.” Point taken.
But still, we’re the laughing stock of the cheese world and we’re just sitting by and taking it. It’s so humiliating.

The other day I was walking past the United Methodist Church on Broadway.
The board outside which usually has a weekly thought or quote read this:
“Sometimes even my lucky rocketship underpants don’t help. – Calvin and Hobbes”
If that’s not preachin’ it, I don’t know what is!

This weekend the air and water show is in town. I’m less than thrilled.
For days before the actual event planes practice flying over the city, deafening “SSSSHHHHHHHHSSSSS!!!!” streaming through the skies. It’s the equivalent of those guys who drive their souped up cars down the street, the engine roaring, trying to prove how tough they are.
We get it! You’re a tough guy! Go roar your car while you’re wearing your muscle-t, on your way to the gym to work on your pecs and your lats. We’re all real impressed!

Today Kellie’s blog was about book vending machines in Paris.
Kel: In Paris, they have book vending machines.
Me: That’s it! I’m moving to Paris! Distributeurs automatiques de livre! stupefier!”
Kel: What are you taking French now?
Me: I am. (pause) Or…I mean…(pause) Oui.
Kel: (sigh)
Me: I think they’d appreciate me more over in France.
Kel: You think so?
Me: Totally. In fact, maybe I should launch my blog there soon.
Kel: Uh oh.
Me: bergavecdesreitures.com, ma vie comme josh.
Kel: Not nearly as catchy.
Me: Hmm, no. I guess not.