Hello, grind. After a double birthday, then three days of killing, grilling, chewing and swilling, I’m submitting to the white glare my computer monitor and a noisy bushel of e-mails. Play time is over. I know. I swat at my voicemail to hush up for a minute while I regain my responsibility bearings. But like a slaughterhouse bolt in this weekend’s head, there’s an e-mail at the bottom of the pile announcing Great American Steakhouse is closing. Its final day of business is Saturday, July 12. "Maybe you didn’t hear me," the back of my brain says, pinching my synapses. "I said I think it’s time you went on a diet."
Stick A Fork In Me
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