Joey in Astoria had this to say in a rundown of Queens-y blogs:

Roving Gastronome is sort of random in my opinion, but claims Astorianess.

Of course I got all huffy for about 3 seconds, and then I realized: Coverage of my toilet-lid exploits is random. And I haven’t mentioned Astoria specifically in I can’t remember how long.

So here it is again, lest we forget: I fucking love Astoria!

And I promise to get a bit more focused narrative going in future posts. Can I blame the current random tone on the bacteria coursing through my veins?

Omigod, which reminds me: Remember my fear of gout, and its possible ending my decadent gourment lifestyle? Well, that’s not what I have. It’s worse. (Or I think it is–still waiting on blood tests to confirm.)

I think I’m sick because I ate raw-milk cheese. How completely unfair. I mean, I adore little goats–they’re absolutely lovely, with their floppy ears and little noses. How can they make me sick?

And even more outrageous, how can the US government be right?! Of course the USDA is crazy to ban young cheeses made from unpasteurized milk. Of course those people who smuggle stinky fromage back in their socks are heroes. I mean, Max McCalman himself said he feeds raw-milk cheese to his daughter. (But maybe that’s part of the reason he’s divorced. Still, I admired him when I heard him say that.)

Other than eating some funky goat cheese in Greece and Turkey, I can’t remember a single thing I did this summer that would’ve exposed me to heart-infection-causing bacteria. Unless…that night in Sofia…it’s sort of a blur…we had that whole bottle of pear brandy…I suppose I could’ve blacked out the part where I was frolicking in the post-Soviet fields with pregnant livestock (that’s the other risk factor).

That’s the news, kids. I swear I’ll be more coherent once the meds kick in. Long live Astoria!