Summertime...

...and the livin's easy, muthafukka.

-More or less.


-The Heat this past week (as you well know) was brutal. Broo-tal. Every morning, I walked outside and greeted The Heat. I would say, "Hello, crushing and oppressive Heat, how are you today?," to which The Heat would respond, "Howdy, assfuck, I am both crushing and oppressive. Thanks for asking." Then, The Heat would proceed to kick the living shit out of me while giggling like a schoolgirl on Ether.

As bad as The Heat was for the average folk, it was even worse for me because I was pretty much in a state of near-death hangover every day. Oh yeah.


-Last Saturday was Bob's party. Bob is one of the bartenders at The BAG. Bob takes his (and our) drinking seriously. Quite seriously, indeed. There was a ton of booze at his place, of all varieties. He even made sure to procure a bottle of Wild Turkey 101 for yours truly. Go, Bob! I shan't endeavor to catalogue all of the affronts to God and Nature that occurred at Bob's party. I don't have that kind of time, and I refuse to implicate my friends in any Acts of a Nefarious or Profane Nature. Suffice to say, fun was had. I was The Last Man Standing (Stumbling...whatever) and witnessed the Sunrise while floating on a raft in Bob's pool, sipping the remnants of the Turkey straight from the bottle as I softly hummed the melody of Tom Waits' "Innocent When You Dream."

It was one of those moments that I won't soon forget. Very chill. Very calm. Very Zen.

I crashed in the spare room until around 4pm, then helped Bob and Kim clean up the yard, while drinking several Smirnoff Ices, which pretty much re-activated my buzz from the previous night. A normal, well-adjusted person would've then gone home and stayed there after participating in such a marathon night of drinking and whatnot, but as I am anything except normal or well-adjusted, I went to The BAG Sunday night, to drive yet another metaphorical nail into my spititual coffin.


-Sunday night was the usual Exercise in Self-Destruction, wherein Ken, Trout, and I (plus whomever wanders in off the street) drink many, many shots while watching Adult Swim. Hail Kelly for being such an accommodating bartender. Hail The Fates for allowing me to swerve home without any "Imperial entanglements."


-Monday was my usual Jaybird Jam, which is always fun. Tunes were played, drinks were drunk, and combustibles were...combusted.


-Tuesday was my usual Cabin Fever gig with Big Al, which is (also) always fun, but this week was even funner (yes, I'm well aware that that is improper English- my Blog- deal with it), because it was Big Al's Birthday. Spunk, Z, Jackie, and several other folks showed up, and we had a Good Ol' Time. Afterwards, Biggie and I honored our newfound tradition of hitting Grey's Papaya at 4am, for chillicheese dogs, french fries, and knishes. Delicious. The only downside of Tuesdays in The City is that I usually don't get home until 5am or so, pretty much fucking up my Wednesdays at work. Especially this week, when The Heat was crushing and oppressive, turning a standard-issue hangover into a torturous and wretched lesson in the folly of a bull-headed adherence to "The Rock and Roll Lifestyle."


-Wednesday night was The Side Door, and both Pancakes and Big Daddy Den-Den were in attendance, thereby elevating a good time into a great time. Bluesman Gary and I created a new kind of music- "Acusstic" music. Its when you play a gig with only acoustic guitars, and you swear as much as humanly possible during the show.

For example:

"Thank you very much. Next, we'd like to play a song by The Beatles, off the album 'Abbey Road.'

You filthy fucking cocksuckers."

And so on. Its great fun. You should try it sometime. Preferably at your next family reunion.


-Thursday was The BAG, which is always cool. Drinking Dunkin Donuts' coffee at 3:30am when you should be making sleep instead is less cool, but when said coffee is bought for you by a cute chick, you make exceptions. Hee.


-Friday was a Long Day. I put in a few extra hours behind the counter at work because two of our main guys were out. Joe was on vacation, and Kaz's wife had just given birth to a son that afternoon. I hate working the counter, especially on a busy Friday night, but its good money, and now Frank owes me a favor. I like being owed favors by my boss. I always make sure to take full advantage of his gratitude, whether it be changing my schedule at the last minute, eating for free on my days off, or just slacking on the job. I am evil that way.

I had planned on staying in Friday night, since the week's shenanigans had finally caught up with me, and I was exhausted. It was not to be. Jacquie P. called me from my old hangout, The Grasshopper, and told me a few members of our old Running Crew were hanging out and getting silly. Jacquie's an awesome chick, and we haven't hung out for a long time, so I dragged my tired ass out to the bar. Caitlin and Danielle were there, as was Joel. That's when I knew I was in trouble. Joel is The Guy Who Incessantly Buys You Shots. He doesn't drive (cab service rules), so he can get as hammered as he pleases. No one wants to get shitfaced alone, so Joel hands out Mind Erasers like your mom hands out The Clap. Which is a lot.

We drank. And drank. Then, just for the hell of it, we had some more drinks. It gets a bit blurry from there, but I distinctly remember Danielle "playfully" tweaking my left nipple at some point. I remember this because my left nipple is still sore, two days later. Still sore. Two. Days. Later. Fffffuuuuck. That chick has some crazy, ninja, nipple-tweaking skills, and she is a danger to society.


-Saturday was Haldy Fest, which I shall endeavor to write about on the morrow, since it was Epic and deserving of detailed reportage, but I've pretty much run out of steam for this post.

On this day.





Random Fact: I have never been, even now, able to write the number "8" without it looking all squishy, crooked, and just plain wrong. My penmanship is pretty bad across the board, but my inability to write a decent "8" bugs the shit out of me.

This Random Fact has been brought to you by the letter "@" and the number "~".

It certainly has not been brought to you by the number "8".