It is a dark and blustery night. Steve and Sticks and I are careening down Vandeventer in the luxury sedan Sticks got in the divorce. We're looking to strap on the feedbag at a new Somali restaurant that, the scuttlebutt alleges, is wedged between some warehouses somewhere near Tower Grove. Or Boyle. Or Sarah. OK, I don't know exactly where. I don't know the name of the place, either. But we Posey-Smiths didn't get where we are today by ignoring scuttlebutt. Like fake... More >>>