Something that should never happen

Today I saw two kids dressed as though they had just got off little league practice hysterically screaming with unbridled enthusiasm as they ran out of the family mini van and into Starbucks. Parents: an appropriate post-practice treat is the custard stand, not Starbucks. As if they aren't already wired enough.



In other news: this morning was drab and shitty, but now that the sun is shining through the trees on Raleigh street, I have the the Islands' song "Don't Call Me Whitney, Bobby" stuck in my head. Their 2006 debut album, "Return to the Sea," is already an all-time classic summer album in my estimation, and its follow-up, "Arm's Way," comes out Tuesday.

And coming soon: A post about my trip to Chicago, including such highlights as:

+ Inadvertently partying with Duran Duran
+ Smoking a joint on the beach not 200 yards from the nearest skyscraper
+ Having my masculinity and Japanese-made (but American-assembled) car insulted by a Beaver County police officer at 3 a.m. this morning shortly before we opened my spare tire well and found cans of Natty Light that expired while I was still in high school.