Not much to report, just the same old same old. There was a bunch of stuff I wanted to write about, but I’ve forgotten it all. Usually I write these ideas down, but in a fit of rage I trashed a bunch of papers the other day. I have no idea how the mail in my apartment multiplies and spreads; all I know is that I can’t find a damn thing anymore. It’s like a junk mail mitosis experiment in my place. Ergo the fit of rage and subsequent trashing.Tonight is dollar Lumpy Dog drafts at Rock Bottom. Someone please please please call me at 11 pm and make me go home. Thursday (and Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday) nights are turning into a painful scenario. First Bennigans, then the Rock, then back to Bennigans, then the Hose, then hate myself in the morning. Repeat that over and over again and welcome to my conundrum.Hey! I read in the Inquirer today that theReal World is coming to Philadelphia. Old City to be exact. I’m not sure how Ifeel about that yet. How weird would it be to be sitting in a bar and then a wholecamera crew comes rolling in to create a scene. The only plus is that it still leavesa slim chance that I could get to see the inside of a Real World hot tub. (Albeita nasty STD infested one) I’ve decided to start selling the contents of my bulletinboard to finance my beer habit. Silent auction begins now, and here’s an itemizationof the contents (blacked out items not for auction): 2004 Barbie calendar, “On theInternet” sign (not really mine, may not be able to sell), Master Yoda cutout withthe inscription “Size matters not.”, Litterbutt.com bumpersticker that used to read “The World Isn’t Your Ashtray”, LaserJet 5si quality printoutof Katie Holmes, Scarf-tying 101 Instructional Brochure, a nasty note that was lefton my windshield that reads: “Don’t block the steps again you idiot!”, and my crownjewel, an autographed photo of Peter Brady. The autograph reads “To Jeff, All my love,Peter Brady.”