I am worried about my friend, Dave. Unlike most of our fellow Discordians, Dave never made the successful transition from the bar scene to the coffee shops.  Dave never even made the ever important transition from the bars to the pubs either.  In fact, if memory serves, he never made the transition from junior high to high school, but that’s a different story (spelled GED, incidentally).

Flagstaff, AZ— We stepped right into it—right into a Hefescheiss as it’s called in Deutschland. Clearly the powers that be wanted us to stay. For the record, it was the only time I had ever gone to Mother Road Brewery for Purposes Other Than Ale (POTA). Hey, wasn’t POTA just struck down by the Supreme Court?

The night was moist and clingy like a BBQ-sauce-smeared wet nap.  A damp chill hung in the air like a BBQ-sauce-smeared wet nap.  OK, I’m out of similes.  I got nothing.  As fate would have it, there were far too many eateries and drinkeries within walking distance of our hotel to do any justice to the ghosts of Gettysburg.  In a spirits vs. spirits grudge-match in my world, the carboxyl group version trumps ectoplasm every time.  Some people shake at the sight of spirits; I shake when I don’t get enough of the other kind.