My wife and I went to Three Floyds, a brewpub in Munster, Indiana on Saturday, with my family. It is surprisingly unpretentious for a place that serves up some of the highest rated brews in the United States, and the food was trumped only by the beer. I was driving and so had to responsibly sip a pale ale, but I behaved drunkenly to make up for it.

Sunday, ‘teh’ wife and I headed up to the north side of Chicago with a friend of ours. My wife had an appointment at the hair cutterytorium, which happened to be on Halsted.

I learned very quickly that the Pride parade was indeed happening that day.

Smelt of glitter, perfume and feather boas, and I was proud to be there.

We ducked into a restaurant to get away from the heat and the crowd, and it turned out to be a fantastic Mexican place with a gorgeous patio with a view onto the parade route. Surprisingly deserted. A few hours and refreshingly lime-filled Coronas later, it began to rain pretty heavily, which somehow made the experience even better. They had an ancient tree growing up right in the middle of the patio and it framed the low and gray clouds like only a bigass old tree can.

I felt bad for the sexy, gyrating cheerleaders who had to be sexy and gyrating in the rain. On the other hand, they didn’t have several layers of wet cotton making sweet, sweet love to their skin.

As some of you may know, I’m very close friends with J.J. Abrams’ valet.  We’re tight, we hang out on the weekends all the time.  As some of you may know, J.J. Abrams and his valet recently had a bit of a falling-out.  As some of you may know, J.J. Abrams keeps the binder of the master Lost story arc in his sock drawer.

J.J. Abrams’ valet wanted me to show this to you all.  Below is, unedited, the final episode of Lost, set to air in 2010.  This is a full two-year-ahead preview. Look away if you don’t want to read any spoilers:

***start spoilers***

it’s night time, of course
hot guy with stubble looks into the forest
hot lady makes a scared face
THEN A FUCKING GHOST COMES OUT OF THE FOREST BUT THEN THE OLD GUY KILLS IT WITH EYE LASERS

THEN HE RIDES A DOLPHIN TO SAFETY IN L.A. AND OWNS A CONDO AND THAT MAN’S NAME WAS J.J. ABRAMS

WHAT A TWIST

AND ALL THE OTHER CHARACTERS THAT ARE STILL ON THE ISLAND ARE NOW SORRY THAT THEY TOLD HIM THAT HE SMELLED LIKE MUNG BEANS AND MOLDY SALSA

***end spoilers***

J.J. Abrams will probably bitch out and change the final episode now that I posted this and ruined all his plans. In fact I bet you that the final episode is nothing like this, but that’s fine.  Because I stuck up for my buddy, good ol’ J.J. Abrams’ valet.  Maybe next time, J.J. Abrams, you’ll invite us to the Lost Christmas party!

I spent Father’s Day with my dad. Since I am devoid of children myself at the moment, I took my puppy along. (For those of you keeping notes, Ricki is almost two years old but she acts like a puppy. She’s [mostly] Aussie Cattle Dog, and according to anecdata I have, she will retain this behavior until about three weeks after she dies).

This is not a picture of her from yesterday, but it’s pretty much the face she makes.  I’ve compiled this handy list.  The four faces of Ricki:

• Happy (see above)
• Startled
• Holy Crap Look At Me Dad!  Dad, Dad!  I’m Poopin’!
• The Patented Aussie Cattle Dog Death Stare, which causes spontaneous human and bovine combustion

I’m endeavoring to capture each of these faces and make a handy guidebook in case you encounter a Ricki in the wild, but I fear that any attempt to capture in digital form the last (or should I say, final?) face would end the world.  Or at least there would be an increase in conspicuously un-charred bits of legs next to piles of ashes in bookstores around the globe.  Maybe I’ll save that release for Christmas.

All of the Window authors gathered together at a Starbucks* near my house to work on our stories. Good times were had by all, we got a lot of excellent suggestions passed back and forth, and I, at least, feel recharged and re-energized as I continue the last, final effort to complete Codex Nekromantia and begin work on my full Window submission.

The collection will be stronger than ever this year.

* Yes, yes, sue me. It was air-conditioned, my apartment wasn’t (we have a geriatric and somewhat wheezy A/C unit that we try to use as sparingly as possible) and then I didn’t have the pressures of a host. It’s difficult enough getting people to come see me, let alone when my abrasiveness is higher than a belt sander because people are fucking asking me for water and shit. Who do I look like, fucking Aquaman? Shit.