Saturdizzle

Don’t be alarmed, but I may or may not be posting wearing nothing but a pair of snazzy boxers.

It’s that kind of morning.

Pretty soon I’ll clean, I’ll dress… head out into the front room to try and track down the other 22 Keystone Light cans that are not currently in line of sight… Just a typical Saturday, although we both know I prefer the a-typical Saturday.

Last night, after the aforementioned keystones and a brief but intense free-for-all involving the torturous electrified flyswatter I received for my birthday, we went downtown. After plowing through the crowd of faux-punks, emo scum, and high school sophomores that crowd around The Dwelling every weekend, we made it to everybody’s favorite establishment: McCarthy’s.

Not that much to be said about slo’s olde Irish pub, except it has two magnificent qualities which raise its status from Dive to Awesome Dive. The first, and probably the most impressive, is that McCarthy’s, a tiny hole in the wall with a capacity of like 35 people, is the number one Jameson account in the U.S. That means that the patrons of this tiny ass bar buy more Jameson whiskey than the patrons of any other tiny ass bar anywhere in the entire country. That’s god damn impressive, especially considering if I stretch out and lean forward real far I can stick one foot out the door and both hands on the bar, thus spanning the entire width of the joint. And I’m not that big.

The second and equally important quality is the jukebox. Fuck yes, McCarthy’s jukebox, fuck yes. I’m not talking The Cars, or The godforsaken Beach Boys, and there’s only one Beatles album. I’m not talking the Police or The Cure or, now that I think about it, any music younger than I am. My dollar bought me Johnny Cash – Folsom Prison Blues, James Brown – The Payback, Lou Reed – Sweet Jane, and a Waylon Jennings song. How awesome is that. Stick your head out the door and in the hazy distance you can hear Get Low bumping out of Mother’s for the 46th time in one night, or Jermaine Dupree that fucking muppet with dreadlocks whining out his newest song from The Library. That’s when you shake your head and come back inside. And buy another beer. Which they serve to you still in the can.

At one point, with my collar up and the rain pouring down as we marched home from girl’s house at 3 am, I asked Nate:

“Nate,” I says, “Does my desire for fairness and reason in a relationship preclude me from ever being in one again?”

“Ideally or in practice?” He asks.

“In practice.”

“….Yes.”

A hard thing to hear under the misty orange lights of Mill St. at Ungodly O’Clock, soaked and sobering rapidly, but strangely not as hard as one might think.

We then went back to planning the Magnificent Pirate Adventure (coming Spring ’05) and discussing more important things, like the feasability of putting a bottle rocket launcher on one of our two robots, and baseball hats.

I forgot to mention my defining slo moment of the day: One black guy in the entire bar at Reggae Night, and he worked there.

I’ve been rudely interrupted mid-post. bbl.

-T.

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