Whatup, world. It’s your main man Jon, chillin’ at work, bloggin’ a bit, endlessly refreshing a broken link to “Hogwarts School of Prayer and Miracles” fanfiction I found on Facebook, snackin’ on my mom’s nutella-based oatmeal chocolate chip cranberry cookies, one boot planted high on my desk. It’s a five o’clock world, you guys, but it’s feeling more like a three o’clock world today, if you catch my drift. Soon enough I’ll be strolling into the heart of the city towards the venerable Palace Grill diner, where I will meet mi gran amigo Joe M., who procured Bulls tickets for my birthday, because he is a radiant sapphire of a man, though no golden lockets could ever bind him. Hopefully Derrick Rose will play, and the Bulls will crush the Detroit Pistons into a tightly compacted cube of metal, frayed wires sticking out here and there like roots from a clump of earth, and leave them to rust in a Southside junkyard for all time. Such is the ceiling on tonight. High as a grand ballroom’s, and just as novelistic.