In the halcyon days of my youth, when I used to dream Great Dreams of someday becoming a writer, I had some...strange...ideas.  I always pictured "Puddin' the Writer" as having a pipe and a tweed jacket with those elbow patches, and spending his evenings calmly before a roaring fire, hound at his feet.  He'd either … Continue reading The fancy dreams of our youth are all eventually waylaid by, um, beer