?

Log in

No account? Create an account
 
 
06 January 2007 @ 02:13 pm
Hey, what if we stop storing the corpses in the drinking water and see if that makes any difference to our health?

I've had diarrhea this afternoon in preparation for my big run around Central Park today. Instead of dressing in my stinky running clothes, I'm sitting here waiting it out. I'll give 'er another half hour or so and then I'm gone, shits or not.

So, I said to myself as I groggily stumbled into my apartment after work last night, "If I'm not in bed by the time 8pm rolls around, something seriously wrong has gone down." Of course, around here, on a Friday night, I didn't believe a single word of that. Something seriously normal is more like it. Getting to bed at 8pm would require a heavy mallet, a guy who formerly played The Incredible Hulk on television, and a bottle of booze.

Ergo, in lieu of sitting here quietly sobbing as the cacophony of sounds in and around my bedroom prevented the body & mind-replenishing slumber I required for functioning, I went along for the hairy journey of finding live music in the city with Emily. We went to a place called Pete's Candy Store - the location of the fateful Sopranos Trivia Night where we were slaughtered on our barstools - and ran into this 4-piece white-boy band. I would've had an opinion about that band, but I was in the extreme presence of friends, family, and well-wishers. So, I reserved my comments until we were out of earshot. Bass player, lead guitarist, drummer who occasionally dropped the sticks to strum a guitar, and a singer who either played acoustic guitar or the keyboards. They were positively bland and we left after about four or five songs to sit elsewhere in the bar, far away from where they could be heard. When I'm dealing with a Pussy Whiteboy Band, I need a bit of quirkiness if I'm to have my interest kept. Either, they gotta be Ben Folds-ish or Death Cab-ish or Flaming Lips-ish (not saying that any of those guys are pussies, but they have singers who dwell in the higher of the male octaves on more than one occasions). See, that too, this band's singer sucked BALLS.

Once we finally got away from that, the evening was fairly enjoyable. Just talking and beer-drinking. No big whoop. We got back around 1am, I chugged a glass of iced tea to gather myself, welcomed Liz back from her Christmas vacation - she returned tired and unhappily to a very fucked-up bedroom due to the Bedbug Last Stand - and hit the sack running.

The Seahawks play tonight at 8 fucking pm. I'm nervously excited. It's 70 fucking degrees like predicted. We're still waiting for the big snowstorm. Last night, I tried to explain to Emily the reason why people (guys) watch and have a vested interest in sports. In particular, sports teams, and why we have these attachments to them. It's completely illogical, if you think about it, because it's not like something anyone ever dwells on for too terribly long. But, in those three hours, we're completely different people; and with our friends we can talk about these teams for HOURS. I'm still working on my thesis for this report. It should be a tasty groove.
 
 
Current Mood: the best thing about New York City is
Current Music: They Might Be Giants - New York City