It seems that the only activity left to us in these frigid times is heavy drinking, readers. The blood’s running cold and is in desperate need of fuel, and the mind could certainly use a break after these long weeks of winter’s oblivion.

Well, perhaps for those of us who’ve reached the age where one might be able to raid the local liquor store before another round of snow or below zero temps traps us all inside, huddling next to the vents to capture the heat.

For those of you too young to partake, I offer my condolences, and hope that you find some way of beating the horrific beast lurking outside.

Yes, strong drink and good times, that’s what this Old Con urgently needs, and what better time for that than the Slam Season?  I’m sure some of you who are reading this have no idea what I’m talking about, which is a sad fact, seeing as how the slams form one of Wayne’s greatest traditions.

Such an event is worth the trip downtown, even with the ugliness outside, not to mention the ever-looming possibility that my manic attorney, Stephen Adonis, could very well be on his way here.

As of now, I have no idea where he is, and haven’t spoken to him since his escape from Kazakhstan, but be assured, I’ve put Rum Brain Moe on lookout duty, and told him that if he managed to stop that crazy Greek bastard from wreaking havoc on Wayne, we’d be even, once and for all.

Surely, if anyone can keep us safe, it’s the witch doctor from Rhode Island, but enough of that, there’s no need to give anyone the fear, not with the poetry slam so close.

Indeed.  Now is not the time to for the weak of heart.

We’re a society in frantic need for poetry, for an escape from the general horror that we witness every day.

We just need to make it to Thursday, readers, and then we’ll be safe, at least for one day, and for humanity, that’s sometimes all we can ask for.

To those of you attending for the first time, be prepared for things you may never have encountered before.

The slam can sometimes feel like a circus—well, a circus lost in the beautiful depths of an acid washed dream—but just be ready to take in the air of insanity.

Yet know this, don’t be afraid of it, because this insanity is good, necessary to keep the world moving.

It’s not the kind you find on street corners or behind desks in political offices.

No, this insanity is one fueled by love and creation, art and fire.  To put it in simpler terms, it’s the living, breathing example of the human soul.

Until then, if you need me, I’ll be hiding deep within the bowels of my homemade bunker, a bottle of rye in one hand and a vicious medieval mace in the other.

You can’t be too careful in this day and age, especially when facing winter on the plains.