Latery? Meaning, not right now.
Later works well too, even though I have the Maker’s shakes at the mention of a short one. Anywhere but here.
By the way - goddamnit, Brian, let’s clear the air. First, I don’t even think you’re in the tribe, so fuck you. Even if you are: talk to me about being the Boss after you’ve taken a few swims in a mikvah (without any commenters, natch). I know I can’t: the man’s more of a Goody-Jew-Shoes than I ever could be, but that’s besides the point (yet, for the record, why I’ve promised my pops my kids will be bas-mitzvah’d before he’s dead, meaning that if they have to get screamed at by Cantor Bergman when they’re four, so be it). Besides, everyone knows I’m too much of a dilettante to be The Boss, can’t hold my liquor or make a jump shot or even look like I could make a jump shot (99), and if I tried to be anything like Dana, I get the feeling that she’d beat me with my own broken off arm. It’s Curt I aspire to be. Nobody knows who he is - and I’ve actually met him - and that yields a certain air of non-bloggyness that lends itself to things like decorum and a refined lack of savagery. Good money’s on this never happening. Anyway - record straightened. Back to work.