There’s only one entrance at my part-time gig at the Bookstore, and I know a few people who read this blog frequent that store, so this warning is as much for them as anyone: if it’s as warm as the news is saying it’ll get today (sixties), I’d suggest clearing far, far away from the store. Hanging, wedged, in fact, between two letters of our sign, is what betting money says is a fairly dead squirrel. I’m guessing it pulled a Flick and stuck its tongue to the metal and, uh, froze to death.

Also: avoid the men’s room. Some of the construction crew guys have taken to getting a little sauced, and then taking porn into the stall and going to town.

Crass commercialism at work: a $7.99 poster featuring the text of Obama’s election-night victory speech, coming for sale soon to a Bookstore near you:

About a month ago, I was asked to be a “Wine Mule” by a friend who was touring California vineyards, but was unable to ship her purchases home to Maryland. DC has no such restrictive laws. She offered to bribe my services with a bottle of wine, but I declined.

I describe my culinary tastes as “meat and potato”, although, honestly? Not so big on potatoes. However, much the same applies to my alcohol tastes — I’m not a fan of most liquor, and, honestly, I’m not big on wine, either. I’m pretty much a beer and cider guy, and while I prefer some higher end beverages (Bass Ale is my drink of choice), I’m honestly quite okay “slumming” with Natty Boh (it’s like Milwaukee’s Best, except it has a cultural tie to Baltimore).

I was reminded of my dislike of wine over Thanksgiving as I had a glass of white wine with the meal. I’m pretty sure I didn’t finish it.

I’m completely, totally supportive of people who love wine. Yay, alcohol! You just won’t ever find me in a wine bar, unless they have some sort of beer selection. Or serve water. Or whatever.