A tribe called Cabbage

It's no secret. I'm about the onliest person any of us knows that lives at home. At this late stage in my quarter-life I have, out of both pragmatism and comfort, abused the goodwill and accommodating nature of my parents to an unprecedented degree by doggedly refusing to vanish from Sauk Trail.

Truly, a proper impetus to vacate has been lacking. Under similar circumstances, many among us would rely on pride or some similarly self-conscious spur to drive them on. As for me, well, I apparently am not resonating at the appropriate frequencies of shame in this instance. Maybe I'm just too cheap. Or maybe I just lack the sense that the Good Lord gave goldfish.

In any case, things are obviously changing, as I've begun moving some of my belongings out of Warner Creek at into the west end of Hoover, into a garden apartment called The Cabbage Patch with Schmerberg. Within the cozy confines of The Patch will reside the doings and goings on of the Two Man Frat, a coalition fated for dissolution in a scant three months. Hopefully, however, I will be able to use the Cabbage Patch as a springboard out of the WC and into my own habitations, as I understand is the general way of things for us middle-aged youths living outside the Republic of Italy.

I think I just sensed The Captain light a celebratory cigar.

The Two Man Frat, by the way, is just a little side project Burgler and I set up as a tool to document our various nefarious plots (like starting an underground pushcart derby) as well as many ill-conceived and ill-fated projects (like learning how to wire up custom electronics). I admit, any alleged necessity for a separate blog for all this is purely imaginary, but it may prove interesting none the less.