They Can’t All Be Wieners

This week, my work schedule is crushing my ambition to dedicate a post every day to gifts my father gave me, wittingly or otherwise.  So tonight, I got a hot dog, no creamy poppy seed steamed bun, and thought of how sweet the orange drink tasted from the park district hot dog stand at Fullerton Avenue beach, where hot dogs were served completely plain, with no relish, existential or edible, by the acned teenager whose patronage job of dishing out food at the beach seemed even too much trouble to perform.  I guess summer is really over.

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