Today I finally announced to staff and colleagues my impending move, freeing me to talk about the whole more openly on the blog. And now that I'm able to break radio silence I find I don't have anything in particular to say about it. Except to say that everything is moving right along: some parts quickly, other parts in slow motion. It's quiet here without the chimps. Too quiet. I should be drinking right now, but I am out of vermouth.

Guido took me food shopping over the weekend. We did not see any bizarre people. That's rare -- they are usually drawn to us, like flies to shit. Maybe next time we shop. I know this: we won't be shopping for Borsci. Unless I have paintbrushes that need cleaning.

This Friday is the Beefsteak Dinner at Xavier. I'll do my drinking there. I'll do everyone's drinking there. I love Xavier events. They usually start with a Mass that's packed, celebrated by some old Jesuit who forces us to sing hymns -- and we do. Then we traipse through the gym, with a basketball game under way, to get to Larkin Hall because that's where the alcohol is. There we find more Jesuits, already warmed up near the keg(s). We drink. More people congregate. Larkin Hall fills. Eventually there is an announcement: everyone please take a seat. We noisily migrate to tables, stopping to load up with more drinks. More announcements: a prayer (the only portion of the spoken remarks that earns any amount of respectful attention) then welcomes, more announcements, etc., etc. We sit. There is paper placeware and a small wilted salad in a plastic bowl. We push that away. We look around, trying to find the one ass-hole who decided to bring his girlfriend/wife to this decidedly male event. There's at least one such jerk every year. We spot the poor bewildered woman -- and we note how she is surrounded by other alumni busily and sloppily flirting with her. Because Xavier alumni still don't know how to act around women. Then the beef comes out: trays of it, thin slices of london broil perched atop a thin slice of french bread. The caterers carry trays to each table, lower them into the midst of the angry howling mob, and with lots of grunting and jockeying, we take beef and eat it. This process repeats itself, with lots of lunging and grabbing and shouting at caterers who pass one's table on their way to serve another. When the caterers can walk the room with a tray of beef without being assailed, beef-time is declared over. Ice cream and coffee are brought out. Drunk men stand around eating little cups of ice cream as they either bid farewell to their chums or negotiate plans to extend the night's merriment at some neighborhood bar.

And that's how the Beefsteak goes. I missed last year's because my busted spine made it impossible for me to go anywhere and enjoy myself. So this year I'll be trying to make up for lost time. And that can only be bad.