A group of friends and I used to make time every week for ‘Wing Night’ which was held at the SideBar, usually on Tuesdays. Wing Night would consist of a few pitchers of Pabst and enough chicken wings to be declared a partial poultry genocide. Once Monster and I ate 50 each in one sitting. And, let’s just say, we were sitting down again shortly afterwards in more secluded locations. The night eventually grew to include a rotating group of faces, but then died off sharply around 6 months ago. We’ve recently been discussing its resurrection, and I thought this would be a perfect time to roll out another one of my silly related Photoshops…

What do you get when you marry geeky Tolkienesque fandom with weekly gastonomical hammerings of biblical proportions? Why, Frodo with a Buffalo biscuit, of course. And like a Hobbit to the Cracks of Doom – starting in January I’m bringing Wing Night home again. So prepare yourselves for the very imminent Return of the Wing.

One of my roomates is parting amicably for reasons of finance. It may also have something to do with all the dead hookers. Regardless, Mardi and I will be needing another… Roomate, that is. I have the hookers covered – With lime in shallow cellar graves for the most part.

If you’re interested, know someone who is interested or just have some sort of sick fascination with what the insides of other people’s apartments look like, click the linky: 20 Cleveland Place #1

I don’t really party like a rock star or kill women of the night, anymore. I think that’s important to point out when recruiting a potential occupant. Just don’t send that link to your crazy cousin ‘OCD Skip’, or some girl you know from middle-school who smelt like pee. I’ve had good luck with roomates thus far, and I’m due for a real disaster. Don’t tempt it.

Today was the first bitterly cold walk to work I’ve endured this season. We’ve been lucky for a long time as the weather has been quite warm, quite late. But Old Man Winter has tightened his grip, and it’s time to buy another Masque. A quick aside about that wonderful warmth inducing product – remember you’re wearing them. Masques will make you look quite scary, and if you barge into a 7-11 wearing one, you might end up at the business end of a 30-30. If you choose to learn this the hard way, your next Kit-Kat may be your last.

But back to what’s going to be my hugely unpopular observation for this fine Wednesday – Boston Common, North Station, Haymarket, Downtown Crossing – were all completely devoid of homeless people this morning. I’m not going to cop out and ask rhetorical questions like “Does it make me a bad person if I’m glad the bitter cold has driven all the carrion inside?” I’m going to make a few up front statements that you can take or leave. Or use as justification to firebomb my apartment (we are in Massachusetts, afterall).

If you have a friend, relative or aquaintence that’s been struck homeless by mental illness or some other misfortune, I’m not referring to them. What I’m glad to be rid of for a few months are the rude, aggressive drunks that plague this city every summer. I walk back and forth from North Station to the Copley area to work every day, and am asked for money an average of 5 times a trip. Asked is actually not the best word. Beleaguered might be better.

Maybe living in the city for 5 years has chipped away at my empathy to the point where I no longer feel sorry for people who are passed out in the street, covered in their own pee. Maybe it’s because that person is sometimes me. But guilt-trip myself as I might, I can’t deny how noticeable and lovely the lack of a vagrant presence was this morning. No one held the door for me on my way into the Dunks, I didn’t have to brave the park bench gauntlet past the Park Street T-Station and Krazy Kris Kristofferson and Slow-Motion Man were nowhere to be found.

I do actually hope they’re all somewhere warm and cozy, being looked after by social services, getting a shower and sucking down some hot soup. But their numbers seem to be multiplying like tribbles – and I hope it’s just my mind playing tricks on me. Or the mentholated schnapps.