Unless you live under a rock (which we don't recommend), you've undoubtedly noticed that The Korner has reached an impasse. With both Peter Doe and Nash Stillwater flying the koop for disparate yet equally gastronomic reasons, we face the inevitability of kreative inviability due to a dearth of kommentary kontent. Are Doe's and Stillwater's departures the fault of the staff as has been suggested? Are we the spineless flakes we're accused of being? Maybe, maybe not. What's clear as un-tinted glass, though, is that we are imperfect beings and all we can do is try our best during the ongoing journey of self-discovery and growth. What's also clear is our unekwivocal kommitment to kreativity. The show must go on! That's why we sent K. Hume O'Henderbaum a cable. He's like the nonbiological great-unkle of all kommentators. Unfortunately, a catastrophic tragedy recently befell the ailing old-timer, but the silver lining is that he's got a lot to say about it. Prepare to have your ass rubbed in the moonshine:
Word to the wise: don't live on a houseboat! But if you must put down your roots on the briny, moor your vessel somewhere other than Fortunate Summit Reservoir. For years now, my hull has been eaten away at by unnaturally high salinity and aggressive diatoms. But the final nail in my floating abode's coffin, however, was driven the other day when I was t-boned by inebriated hooligans in a Bayliner. It took every ounce of my already diminished strength to roll my wheel chair onto the dock before my home was consumed by the man-made lake. Thank the maker I saw that hilarious houseboat insurance commercial two weeks ago! My agent Chad is currently assessing the damage and hopefully stringing the responsible parties up by their toes. In the meantime, he's put me up at the Terracehill Springsuites and Conference Center in downtown Boise. Boy, is this place a dump! The walls are an unimaginative pale yellow. The wall-mounted television is so skinny it must be a fake--I haven't even turned it on. Plus the luggage rack nearly buckled under the weight of my steamer trunk! Such sterile monotony. It reminds me why I try not to spend much time on land. I remember when hotels downtown had character. You could tell the architects and staff members really cared. A weary traveller could choose from the Alta, the Alturas, the Altadena, the Ambassador, the Avalon, the Anaconda, the Albatross, the Albert, the Alder, the Atherton, the Arrowhead or the Xanadu--and those were just the ones on Main Street! Each hostelry was a stately, well-appointed testament to class and craftsmanship--not like the thoughtless, cookie-cutter structures churned out these days. I suppose all I can do now is bide my time in this chic hellhole. But I guess it's better than having my skeleton picked clean by the pikeminnows they stock the reservoir with.