Kent had something going the next day and I was supposed to bring him back in one piece. Truth be told, he got married on Sunday. I thought about kidnapping him and taking him to Tijuana, maybe Club Bambi, let the tranny hookers have a go at the groom to be but I decided to be nice.
We ended up hitting two or three bars, okay three bars, on the way home, vodka segued to irish whiskey, all quite nicely. Ended up at Urge up in O'side, quite a selection, sampled both red breast and green spot. Favored the piquant nature of the former. They told me they had a top shelf whiskey, Boss Hog, that would set you back a little over a hundred bucks a shot but I don't think I could enjoy whiskey that much. Maybe a hit of acid I could get a c-notes worth of satisfaction out of, but those days are long behind me. I can afford a cheap whiskey buzz and be quite happy with it.
Anyway we had a nice time, I felt like it was the right thing to do. Kent has been my basketball buddy for a long time or at least until his bride to be decided she really liked basketball and I got relegated to the bench. I really should have taken him to TJ, come to think of it.
New Years Eve was mellow, first time in 28 years we have stayed home by ourselves. Leslie brought copious amounts of sushi home from our favorite place in Temecula, Hana. We played cards and dice and stayed up through the proper hour. We used to have quite the social scene but it has been decimated by attrition and a variety of other factors, not the least of which is my current reluctance to fraternize with humans.
Had a couple nice stops yesterday, two different families from Chicago. Today I hit the new year running, ready to make it happen. I even have a New Year's resolution. My resolution is to cancel my gym membership, haven't gone in a year and the guilt isn't good for me.
Basically, as the girls at the Main Street Cafe now know by heart, Straws are for lazy Americans and I would rather drink from a glass than have a plastic cylinder end up in some turtle's ass out in the seven seas.
And I even have a sweet little title for my upcoming straw extermination campaign.
What do you think? Catchy, no...
The other thing I wanted to take up in the inchoate annum is that somewhere along in the last couple years, the fat ass got really popular. Maybe it was J-lo, maybe that Kardashian broad but lots of women are sporting these giant posteriors with immense pride.
Now I want to be honest, I am a boob man and the ginormous butt thing is pretty much lost on me. Don't get me wrong, I will fight for your rights to a big butt 'til death. But if you don't mind me sayin', you don't really need to show it off in spandex. It is not a great look, akin to two hundred lbs. of potatoes fighting it out in a hundred lb. sack.
Now I know what you are thinking, Mr. Sommers, let's talk about your fat gut. Fair enough. But I am not parading the thing around in spandex like a Macy's Parade Float. It is mostly hidden underneath the Hawaiian shirt du jour. I am not rocking any neoprene tube top.
|heaven or hell?|
I recently tried to organize a few of my photographer homies into a recon operation into the belly of the Spandex beast, a trip to Walmart, but none of them had the guts to go.
Might have to do it alone, take a solo trip to ground zero of spandaded cellulite heaven. If I don't come back, please send help.
Hired Gun the other night on Netflix. Guess what? He's an even bigger douchebag than I thought.
I first encountered his downright shittiness as a human being when he ordered a bike on Orange County Choppers and sniveled like a big piano man puss when he got it. But when you see how he treats his band in this movie you will want to vomit all over him.
The movie itself is quite interesting, if you can handle all the horrible heavy metal music. The singer from Filter, Richard Patrick, actually vies with Mr. Joel for the title of biggest schmuck. It's your call.
Oh ya, Happy New Year.