Some of this is from emails I’ve written today, recounting events that took place between 6:00PM last night and well, later. Some of the names have been changed because I don’t want people hatin’ on me.
First of all, at 10:32PM, and toward the end of a 90 FREAKIN’ MINUTE phone call (more on that later), I get an email from “Coach,” who, commenting on my recent blogging of the Pats game wrote, “He not only chased him down from behind, he tackled and landed on top of Jackson knocking every breath of air out of his lungs. I love Wilfork!” Coach was writing his regrets for not attending the NEC reunion due to his accommodations at Mass General Hospital last night. I hope Coach’s physical health improves, but I should note his mental health is far beyond the current capabilities of Freudian psychology or the vast pharmaceutical industry… Only he could read that blog post and know the freakin’ plays I was referring to.
At two hours past 7:00 I was getting some air outside a hot Irish Pub full of imbibing Marketing professionals when my lovely ex called me, and like an only-Andy Rooney episode of “90 Minutes,” recaps the reunion in gruesome detail. Long story, but right now she seems to be in a “whoever talks the most, wins” phase, and of course the first thing out of her mouth was, “Esmerelda (literary license) hasn’t changed a bit. She’s as beautiful as ever.” At that point I thought I was being mugged on the tough streets of Newport as a cold, stabbing pain seared my back, but it was only the cut of beautiful words.
As a “glass half-full” kind of guy, the fact I went three half hours without a glass at all was addition by subtraction. When I walked into the dive across the street that everyone had traded up to from the sauna, I was walking more upright than most. As the night regressed, I did learn that lesbians prefer comfortable shoes over heels, and “The U” may have a pretty good football team again. Oh, and while I had “Newport Storm” beer and Cabernet earlier in the night, Maker’s on the rocks just works. Speaking of work, it is for me to socially circulate, but I put the effort in and here are some of the things I heard…
From two different women I took in, “You have kind eyes” and “I was intimidated by your eyes.” So, I guess I have to be very careful about whether I wear my kind eyes or my angry eyes. Finally, aside from my knifing, was the coup de grace of my evening. As I shifted to dissuade the affectionate show of appreciation from a “one too many” 20-something in the bar, my ego was thoroughly enjoying the affirmation. “Yeah, baby. I still got it going on!” Or something like that. As I nodded and smiled approvingly, but also with mock humility at the compliments, the ultimate loud record scratch ripped through my cochlea like a rusty wire brush with, “You remind me of my Grampa.”
“Is someone twisting a knife in your back?
Are you being attacked?
Oh, this is a fact that you need to know”
Wilco (the song)