to drinking

henry said he got his second wind so he came back to the minnow saturday evening. he took the previous week off to drink. bad life, happy hours. i sit next to him and we talk about drinking. he complains his brother is taking too long to get over his divorce. "hell, when i got divorced, i said kill the bitch and went out for a drink." bartender reggie teases henry by calling him his brother's name. henry flips us all off as he leaves, and i toast "to drinking."

no beard

i call to report absences this morning and the secretary asks if i had fun saturday night. i wondered how she knew. she was talking about an event we had gone to at the beginning of the night. it hadn't occurred to me that for some saturday night consisted solely of that college-related event. the only thing remarkable about that event for me was that it created the odd costume n and i would carry throghout the night: it was a black and white party.

after a good minnow night on friday, i thought our saturday would be doomed. fortunately, going to a dry, black and white fund raiser, fueled our need to have real fun. so it was out of that before the door prizes were half done and to the minnow. i drank straight bourbon; n, appletinis. we drank as if the evening would be short and sweet.

third round came and then kyle bought us a round. a rare occassion that required us to stay. other rounds were bought, apparently by cooks and co-workers. next thing we knew it was one and we were in no condition to go home.

the next few hours were a strange dance, in all senses of the word. we ended up at a friend's house to listen to disco music. part of his basement is a disco club--full bar, dance floor, sound system, lights, ball, giant lounge area with 70s furniture, and a small stage behind the dance floor with all sorts of instruments. we entered and he chose a pair of platform shoes for each of us to wear from rows of them displayed on one of the walls. they fit. we were tall. music and strobes and microphones shoved in faces, uncharacteristic loud singing in the mic, constant dancing and movement. somehow, with no more alcohol we got drunker.

it is hard to tell where one will end up after a black and white party. yes, we had fun saturday.

beards

nothing makes me happier than walking into the office in the morning and seeing that the phone is not blinking--unless it is a good afternoon email. this afternoon when i checked to see what complaints and emergencies had accumulated since noon, i found none. just an email from dino.

good day. it led to much productivity. 19 pages of sat8 now done. i drew uglyangie on the last panel today so she would have something to find when looking for herself.

dino has interesting, blogable news about giant urinals nuns picked out, and an expression he has fallen in love with. when talking about a volleyball loss, a co-worker told him, "we shit our beds." in the future when i screw something up, i will say, "i guess i shit the bed on this one." knute rockne in the locker room: "don't shit the bed, boys."

we should make way for uglydino. he could post ass observations and post pornographic zippo lighters.

but the subject is beards. he said he watched the hell's kitchen vids and noticed i had a beard. "i didn't know you had a beard," he said. "i didn't know you had a cousin," i said. and out of laziness a mini-beard is starting to show itself on my face and starting to itch.

nightmares

lisa's pants




our table--eko and forrest, then my line



our whole scene:

deep-fried twinkie dog

slow wednesday night--always slow during the week before big events like halloween and thanksgiving. so slow one-word amywalker is hoping to beat the eight bucks she made on tuesday and the kareoke dude lingers sadly by the back door. delicious supper makes me hungry and in conversation with the sportsman an idea is born. better than the jagersteak and the grandslam drink--the deep-fried twinkie dog.

n produces five bucks, the sportsman runs to hardings, and the deal is on. for whatever reason, people aren't looking forward to it. the words summon the gag reflex.

the sportsman arrives back from hardings with dissapointing news. the fat cashier (as opposed to the pock-marked cashier, the mean cashier, the purple-haired cashier, and the bald cashier) says she loves deep-fried twinkie dogs "fried in fat." then behind him in line, our friend johnny-- itinerate play director, frequent shopper, sometimes referee, and wearer of 8-guage nipple rings--says he' had them too: "it's a southern thang" (supply appropriate drawl). a quick check of the trusty internet says these two are liars. the invention and all subsequent rights are ours. i claim it in the name of the sportsman universe (where soul insurance is always on sale).

after selecting the proper weiny and cutting it down to size and the required dirty jokes about the dogs being too big to fit, the deed is done. delicious. like a new and improved corn dog. put a stick in it and we're millionaires.

bring the history channel to record the home of the deep-fried twinkie dog and hear our tales.

the calling

words and art. i've had a vision of what i've wanted to create for years. sat is just a proving ground. i prefer prose comic; uglyangie is after the po-art (my new phrase). soon it will all come together. i like graphic novels like persopolis and blankets, but i'm tired of the giant whiney coming of age crap these loser cartoonists produce in the name of autobiography. i have a book that reminds me of angie. i will find it tonight and put it in her mailbox tomorrow. there's one publisher of possibility.

pollyanna

pollyanna was in early this morning during my make coffee and think time. she asked me how my weekend was. she always does, though i do nothing to encourage questions like that. i don't care if you notice i got my haircut either. she apologized for not going to the minnow on friday and asked if anyone was there. she meant anyone from work.

there's always someone there, i said.

i remember when i was the sort of person who needed to meet people places, who needed to know that other people were coming. now i simply have a destination. i sit and the parade comes. i never know who will show up. i'm rarely disappointed if someone doesn't.

this friday: bar was full, so we sat for a while with jake from work. some gossip and he left. bar seats open up. we sit next to the mailman who is celebrating the birthday of a woman sitting next to him. they are older and resistent of shots with funny names; they prefer straight liquor shots. and then shot-and-a-beer carol shows up, back from his vegas trip. we chat with him about his debaucherous trip until his to-go food comes and he's home to mommy. an old aquaintence shows up and cries to me about her friend's husband's suicide. she seemed concerned that the friend get a cleaning job. bartender reggie complains about her after she leaves because she demands an itemized bill. people with money are cheap. our friend merlin takes carol's place at the bar and butter sits next to me. odd conversations until the rockstar shows up and takes a liking to me. big burly guy in fender jacket with the single ugliest girlfriend ever. he buys me a shot. then he buys the bar a shot. then he buys me another. we kill the bar's supply of wild turkey. he grabs me by the shoulder and tells me to look into his eyes. he yells something about vinyl and tells me he's going on tour the next day. see you in three years, he says, so we go home.

no need to pre-arrange that.