Chicken, Egg. Egg, Chicken. First, last. Last, first. Chegg. Egkin. Here, there, everywhere there be conudra this week, Members. Raging questions, anxieties. What if the Egg Man never comes? What if the chicken runs around with its head cut off? Why does rooster incessantlyannounce the dawn? The anecdote of course is as easy as praying to that cinema great, Our Lady of the Eggs, whose passing has it’s 27th anniversary this week. With proper homage to her onscreen glory, she will give you strength to do what any Baltimorean worth their salt would do: Open up a psychic thrift shop. Start doing what the kids are doing, only weirder. And if need be, protect yourself like a hag in a black leather jacket.