This afternoon after getting my auto back and learning that it will take an additional $1200 or so to return it to pristine working condition, I was expecting to spend the remainder of my evening at home drinking what remained of Monday's purchases out of the fridge and mulling over how to mix this bassline I decided to lay down.
At about 7 I received a phone call informing me that the actual plan was to meet up with friends at a German-style beerhall called "Blob's Park," so named after Max Blob, a Deutscher expatriate of 1933 vintage who decided upon arrival or shortly thereafter that his friends and family needed a homey type joint for polka dancing and inebriation in the middle of suburban Maryland. The place is fucking huge. It can probably seat 600 people and the dancefloor can fit everybody who's ever posted to ILM.
There we enjoyed lukewarm brats and schnitzel, my friends and I, washed down with all varieties of bizarrely-titled imported beers, including one which was possessed not only of a seven-syllable brand name but also a taste reminiscent of the smell from a glowing campfire. Smoked beer. Wonders never cease indeed.
Afterwards certain members of our party decided to attend the Ram's Head, a well-appointed bar not far from where we live, noted for its single pool table and massive military patronage on weekends. The Ram's Head is not a favorite of any of my close friends for the latter reason - we see these people at work; we ARE these people = why would we want to see them on our free time?
Nonetheless, my friends and I follow the herd, and we ended up listening to a band which while not terrible or even particularly annoying had the most horrible and idiotic name of any band I've ever seen or heard mentioned. Written Prisms. The band called themselves Written Prisms. I leave it to you.
I realized I had left my cigarettes in the car. I ran outside to the parking lot to retrieve them. While jogging along up the stairs and across the cobblestones I realized I could run for miles at such a pace and it felt wonderful. I understand habitual runners completely. A human can never feel as at home in his body as he does when running. It is the main purpose of our structure.
Fordham's is a local brewery and they produce several excellent beers, of which I suspect the Oyster Stout is the finest, since I drank it all night. The advantage of a brilliant stout is that it keeps you from getting schnockered, which was one of my main goals. Hooray Fordham's Oyster Stout.
The game of pool is the greatest sport ever invented. It's like fishing in the sense that any idiot can play it; it's like soccer in the sense that anyone can find a place to play it very cheaply; it's like chess in that mastery of it takes great practice and years of study. The magic of watching a bunch of half-drunk dudes corral around a table and point at bouncing spheres while lecturing on basic physics principles to one another cannot be imitated nor replaced. I fucking love that junk. I wish I could play the game worth a shit myself. My calling, apparently, is to observe.
Smoking indoors is a godsend.
At the end of the evening on the way home I could see the shadowy lumps of the Appalachians in the distance, radio towers flickering away through the night. "Keep On Rocking In The Free World" came on the radio and I realized for the first time that the chorus is completely sarcastic, in a sense, because the verses are all about how shitty we've made the planet with our behavior and addiction to convenience. Yada yada yada, I drove home, I logged in and here I am.
I was thinking of starting several different threads based on my night tonight, but I figured that might be abusive. Similar narratives, commentary, snide one-liners; all welcome.
― Millar (Millar), Saturday, 26 July 2003 04:47 (twenty-two years ago)
There were 2 Long Island princesses on my flight that were better than any movie. They were incredible beautiful and drank many bottles of Chardonnay. One had an LV weekend bag and the other had a Gucci garment bag. They both had designer sunglasses surgically attached to their temples. One wore the sunglasses on top of her blond hair and the other never took off her sunglasses or Yankees cap even though we landed at midnight. They seemed to be from Cedaheust or maybe Woodmeahe (meaning they spoke like Linda Richmond of Cawfee Tawk). They harassed Gary, their row mate, to such an extent ("Gary you are so cute!" "I only date Jewish." "We are shopping for husbands" "Upper East Side!" "From New York? Born and raised?" "Sorry Chris, I only date Jewish""Ga--""Shh, leave him alone" "Gar--""SHHHH!""Gary--" "SHHHHHHHHH!!!!!") that the flight attendant and Gary both asked me if Gary could move to the empty seat next to me. But I think Gary married a shiksa so I didn't feel sorry for him and pretended to lie down on the two seats and take a nap, and then five minutes later went back to reading my book,
Fashionistas by Lynn Messina. This was the best flight ever.
― felicity (felicity), Monday, 28 July 2003 04:27 (twenty-two years ago)
Tonight: Paid 6 bucks for a benefit for some bouncer dude who fell down the stais at the Balcony Club while taking out the trash and died. I wanted to see Pleaseant Grove, excellent alt-country, but we just missed them and saw some dumb hippie band with bongo drums and feathers hanging off their geetars. I tried to console myself by saying the money went for a good cause but I was pissed nontheless.
Once I'm in a bad mood there's hardly no budging it. I think this largely has to do with my intense self-loathing and inablity to deal with a change in plans but that's just an opinion. After a bit of moping we left the hippie benefit and headed back to Ships. I called the boy I'm sorta having an affair with but he was sickly and didnt' want to meet up. Instead me and a few of the usual suspects got together and headed to the Barley House, where many alt-country supastars are expected to meet on Sunday ni9ghts.
Tonight, it was just a couple of random dudes who weren't too bad. However after a few $3 Shiner pints the crew was ready to go back to Ships were we stayed till closing. Then me and my best friend went to Cuquitas for papas con huevos.
Now I'm here.
I go back to school week after next and this apparently is all anyone ever wants to talk about. I am a novelty. :(
― Texas Sam (thatgirl), Monday, 28 July 2003 07:27 (twenty-two years ago)