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The great thing about stupidity is the ease of amusement that naturally accompanies it.
Enjoy your weekend, kids. Clearly I'll have no problem doing so myself.
Stupid made easy
Note: Continuing my current program of laying around in my desperately stretched-out underwear, eating pizza and drinking red wine, is an option that is still under careful consideration.
Happy March 19th.
Peace out, Brad.
** Yes, kids, I recognize that this means I'm old as crap. Whatever.
and Uma Thurman....
His eyes are a startlingly vibrant shade of blue, similar to that of the Hawaiian waters I often fantasize about but have yet to see with my own. A smile does not so much appear on his face as it does overtake it, happily electrifying every plane, each affiliated feature. Said planes have a familiar rawboned quality that seems to me to be common amongst Caucasian men of his remarkable stature. (Those, at any rate, who have not yet gone to fat, as nearly inevitably happens.) The overall impression is one of sweet and unassuming beauty, in that slightly goofy, effortless way that only certain open-featured, Midwestern boys can be beautiful.
We will never be anything more than two oppositely-gendered people who know one another in an obligatory, passing sort of sense. A sad formality colors our interactions; my deeply ingrained sense of propriety stifles giggles, squelches potentially audacious feminine gestures of affection.
It is, nonetheless, rather lovely to be reminded of one’s own primal proclivities; to feel, simply stated, like a woman, solely due to the presence of a man who would be shocked to learn of his own casually hypnotic wiles.
Honest to Joe, I have no idea where this came from. It appeared on O's camera like dirty magic.
Once the ice was sufficiently broken and we had annoyed Nowhere's bartender quite enough, Joe rounded us up, and we shuffled toward The Phoenix. I prayed desperately along the way for the appearance of a gay basher or two...or ten, even. Our gigantic, burly queer posse woulda mopped up First Avenue with 'em. Alas, we were not accosted. Maybe next year.
The Phoenix was...well, The Phoenix. Best jukebox in Manhattan, hands down. Midway through our stay, it was clear that the booze was beginning to work its magic; our laughter got louder, our behavior slightly obnoxious, and the looks our group got from the other patrons started getting curious. It was there that this lovely gentleman...
...busted out his finest Scottish accent, in honor of Curly's Paddy parentage. It was hot.
Next was Dick's Bar. Hoo boy. Kids, I have spent time in some filthy, crappy dive bars in my time, which I'm sure is a surprise to no one. But I have to say that Dick's Bar is the grossest, saddest, most depressing gin joint I've ever set foot inside. No joke. Yikes. The dull grunginess and stench of desperation were perfectly (and horribly) offset by the hideously drunken, lurching presence of an aged former teen movie star whose name I shall not mention here. (You would shit if I told you who, seriously.) Thankfully, Senator Whispers provided comfort in the form of a bisexual back massage that almost made me pass out. Also, Curly and I both opted to pee in the stall in the boys room, rather than wait for the ladies terlit to open up. It was, like, totally subversive or something. Yeah.
Helen: No I have the best boobies!
Travis: She totally has the best boobies.
Helen: Neener neener, Travis loves me and my boobies better!After the tragedy of Dick's, Tom, Curly and I opted for a well-advised pizza break. When we rejoined the party at Big Lug, thangs was gettin' crazy. The DJ was awesome, and we had all been, you know, drinking for awhile now, and there was some dancin', and...yeah. That place pretty well rules. Yay!
No, not Helen Reddy...Helen and Eddie. Duh!
Helen: Eric...dood... is that guy your boyfriend?
Helen: Why the fuck not? I mean, have you seen him? Dang!