The smell of success...

...is equal parts Deep Woods Off (TM), bourbon, hamburger, and gunpowder. I think. Perhaps mixed with a smidgen of Sparks, and a dash of "guitar fingers." You know (at least, you guitarists do), that smell that infests your fingertips after playing acoustic guitar for a few hours. That coppery, sweaty, metallic smell.

I reek of all these aforementioned scents, plus a few other, mystery odors.

I need to write about Maryland, and how spectacular the whole experience was, but I'm distracted by the events of the past 24 hours or so. I shall touch upon the Maryland scene in a later blog. For now, come with me to a place called "Shawn's Saturday."

It begins with me sleeping off an heroic alcohol consumption excursion. I met up with Big Al (well, he's the biggest Al I know) at Jigg's Friday night to check out Zute (a cover band that dabbles in originals). They were good. I don't mean to give them short shrift, but the fact that I'm ten minutes from unconsciousness demands that I move along quickly, and forgo a full Gig Report. Sorry, Cory. Rest assured, Zute is a good band, and I dug them. I got home late, and attempted to drink everything that wasn't nailed down. [Note to self: next time, nail down the bourbon]

I dragged (drug?) myself out of bed around 1pm to head over to Flan's for his son's 1st Birthday. Actually, I stopped at Target first, to procure a gift. What better gift than the "old faithful," Monkey Chase (TM)? Kids love the Monkey Chase (TM). Sheeeit, I love the Monkey Chase (TM). Your Mom loves the Monkey Chase (TM). Google it.

I bought myself some toys, as well. A "Spiderman Mini-Mate" now hangs proudly from my rearview mirror. "A land where large, fuzzy dice still hang proudly, like testicles from rearview mirrors." Name that tune, motherfuckers...

Anyway, I got to Flan's and spent time with many good friends whom I miss terribly, and would spend time with more often if they hadn't made the grave tactical error of marrying and procreating. Dumb shits.

Just kidding.

Mostly.

The Grim Reality of the situation is, everyone I talked to seemed resigned to their fate. No one was truly "happy" with their House/Wife/Kids thing. In fact, a few of them (not YOUR husbands, whichever random wives happen to be reading this), expressed their desire to live the "Rock and Roll Lifestyle" that I've perfected.

Dumb shits.

It ain't easy forsaking everyone and everything to play Music. Trust me on that.

Whatever. I got to see some Old School friends, and eat food. I do, in fact, eat food. Good times.

Then, it was time to meet up with Big Al (again) to play an acoustic gig at a rather large keg happening in Ridgewood ("The Land of Ridgey Woods").

This is the part where I should write about the party, and the people, and the mildly dangerous "Swing of Doom," and the Music, and the booze, and the fireworks, and the singular joy of ignoring proper sentence structure and letting the narrative run on, and on, and on...

But I won't.

I shan't.

Because twelve hours of boozing and such have finally caught up to me. With me. Whatever.

It's time to make sleep. I do have all day Sunday off, however, and I plan to blog a bit more. At the very least, I will write about Maryland, and how much ass it kicked. (Here's a hint- it kicked much ass.)

Happy Father's Day to you Fatherly types- good job spreading your seed. My Pop lives in Tom's River, and I refuse to brave the returning Shore traffic Sunday evening, so I shan't be visiting him on this day. Regardless- I thank him for knocking up my Mom, and for not disowning me, even though it would (at this point) be completely justified. "Good on ye, Pop!"

Give your Dad a hug. And a beer.

On second thought- skip the hug. Give 'em two beers. And some condoms. Or a vasectomy. After all, we don't need any more assholes like you running around, do we?

Sunday is Castrate Your Dad Day! He'll thank you later...


*snip*