The sound of bubbling, boiling water rose suddenly and the the white teapot anchored to the wall of the hotel clicked off with a muddled thwack of plastic on plastic. The mirror in the hotel room was placed just above the electric kettle and was all fogged up in the steaming. The clarity in my mind turned to a cloudy vapor eerily similar to my tea water.
I’ve been sitting at my laptop for four to five hours a night for the last five weeks now trying to start a new story. Nothing comes out. Two, three, four in the morning; I stare at the LCD screen, pound away, drink more coffee, more tea, more whiskey or — you know — whatever’s on ice.
Oh, sure, all the stimulus in the world comes in when you’re a professional consultant for a major software company, but you never have time to jot it down. And when you’re a pathetic void of short-term memory like I am, there are few thoughts that you hold on to for very long. Besides, there’s always something else in this life of constant movement: the phone that rings, buzzes with text messages from faraway lands; a chat request comes in. Shit.
I close my browser, press buttons, turn off connections, rip out the wireless card. Then the tea clicks, or you get hungry. Or you remember that you’re in a new city this week and start to wonder why the hell you’re still pent up in your hotel room of all places?
And the next thing you know you’ve lost that momentum you had. The words you knew would be great when you finally put them on paper.
But it’s happened before. Oh well.
I ended up putting my laptop aside and got up to get my tea. I needed something to warm up my fingers, which seem to be the only part of my body that’s reptilian in nature and can’t warm itself. I guess it comes from living for large parts of the day with my hand over a friction machine like a notebook’s keyboard, especially one as poorly designed as this one. I don’t know if it’s the battery or the hard drive or the processor they they decided to place directly beneath your palms. But whatever the hardware, it’s no wonder that my body heat regulators on my hands are completely shot to shit.
Dammit, who designed these things? And why am I writing about it?
–
Dammit, we got off track there. That’s ok. We’re back now and things are going to move.
Now that we’re done with that digression, where should we go?
–
Jesus, I’ve been doing this for a long time.
Remember that hotel room? Was it in LA? My flight had landed at one in the morning on a red-eye straight from Orlando. After an hour of traffic I arrived at the Sheraton Hotel in downtown Los Angeles at two in the morning. The behemoth was a concrete monstrosity of columns with no end. And when eventually I found my room there was a moaning and knocking against the wall that wouldn’t stop — and it was a bad time for that kind of noise on the brain. Too much violent sex going on in the room next door. She was clearly faking it and he could clearly care less. He went on, grunting and howling to her forced moans and screams saying filthy things and asking for more. A bad porn movie, maybe? I thought. No way this is my reality.
Another week at around the same time frame — where was I? I think it was in a Marriott but in a room further south across The Grid in Brea by the Cal State Fullerton. It was three in the morning but there was a conversation nearby — what was it,exactly? The male voice was in its late 50’s or maybe his early 60’s and had a weak quiver behind its masculine age. She couldn’t have been older than 38. If that. And dumb as a rock.
The conversation might’ve gone for hours if left to its own devices. The two talked openly of her breast implants in the hotel hallway outside of my room. I could only guess how many hair tosses she gave him, how many open shots to feel her up right there in that beige corridor of gloom. Like a withering tree he stood, firmly interested but unable to move beyond his reluctance. Maybe he had a wife at home; maybe kids he loved. Who knows? He wanted so badly to give it to her, that much was clear. He was ready and willing to just do her hard and dirty, pressed against yellowing wallpaper and ugly carpeting, but something held him back viciously. What was it…?
Who cares? IT’S THREE AM, I remember thinking. I’d poked my head out into the hallway and pointed my eyes in their direction, hissing and staring until they disapeared from view.
In Kansas city I’d had to order up a small bottle of Nordic vodka to sip as I leaned out the window of that 5th story building. Out in that flat expanse that reminded me of the stark emptiness of the bottom of the ocean I’d had my first glimpses of what life on the move was going to be like, witnessing the reality of people who accepted their own existence because they simply didn’t know any better. Then snow began to fall and didn’t stop for 3 days, mixing with the ash and sorrow that midwest hole exuded. And since then I’ve seen it again and again, in places all over the world.
How much weirdness can a man take in his short life and at what point does it become too much, this notion of chasing freedom, of chasing happiness? At what point is the courage to do it, not matter the odds, no matter the perils, no matter the heartbreak to you or others pass the point of practical and into the realm of wrecklessness, or worse, childish?
I wonder at all the faces I see in airports, restaurants, hotels and side streets. Terrifying genius in some, creepy emptiness in others. And most of them unimpressive. I wonder if I will tire of looking.
Meh.
Posted in Anecdotes, Rants, Travels | No Comments…
![[Digg]](http://writtenrhetoric.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/digg.png)
![[Facebook]](http://writtenrhetoric.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/facebook.png)
![[Google]](http://writtenrhetoric.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/google.png)
![[Technorati]](http://writtenrhetoric.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/technorati.png)
![[Email]](http://writtenrhetoric.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/email.png)
A blur of spectacles flash before me every day, be it sirens in the distance, flash blizzards from the North East or the homeless. The sirens never seem to die, even as they approach the horizon, and the snow is torrential, heavy and undiscerning. The hopelessness of the homeless, who utter things like “have a nice day — and a better tomorrow” as they drag their feet past you, shaking an empty plastic frappuchino cup with about eighty cents in nickels and dimes is something I’ll never be ok with, no matter how many different cities I see it in. And it’s always worse on the metro, which they call subway here. I’ll have to remember that.
I sustain myself on a diet of bread and cheese, seemingly unable to break off from my European customs. Also, the coffee sucks, which complicates things. With such restlessness my darker thoughts form cohesion. My anger gives me focus. And then I open the wine. En vino veritas.
And all is forgotten.
Rambling down 6th ave on an icy night that bites and gnaws on any exposed flesh gives me more perspective than I care to have. The Avenue of the Americas, Times Square, Little Brazil, all the way down from Columbus Circle at the park. The people, their indifference to each other, bumps on the sidewalk here and there - I think somehow I’m already a part of this mob, inasmuch as I can ever be.
I’ve been walking among them like a zombie now for days. Still working on European time, I wake up at 2 am and go through the day on 3 hours of sleep for a couple weeks at a time, stopping for a few days between projects to explore the dark, to exercise, and run through my German language CDs. It’s the price I pay for leading a life with a foot on each side of the pond.
A friend of mine told me once that when you’re dealing with the Middle East, there’s no such thing as “staying on the fence”. There’s a parallel here, I just know it.
But I’m somehow outside of it all, it occurs to me. I stumble in between office environments in my line of work, jumping from meeting to meeting, from client to client. Never belonging anywhere I go, always carrying a visitor’s badge. Really what I’m doing is wandering through people’s lives, observing, noting…occasionally judging. I can’t help that — it’s an occupational hazard of life on the go, of those who live on the road. We may covet the sense of normality that most people have, but we judge the mediocrity of it. We may occasionally seek the comforts of stability but we always yearn for the excitement of spontaneity. We want to have our cake and eat it too.
But at some point we’re going to have to come to terms with the fact that not everyone will have a normal life. Not everyone is capable of it. We will have to accept that the moment has come and gone many times to go down the familiar road that others do — a road that leads to routine, to tradition, to recognizable successes and failures. And we must remember that at every juncture we have chosen to veer from that path, even if it was at the last minute.
Should we ask ourselves why?
Of course. But when you start discussing reasons for things like that, you start getting into very ugly territory and people do not easily forget that kind of talk. You have to answer questions about what it would be like to feel like a part of something, even if it was something that a part of you hated, and leaves open a lot of flaws of a lot of people. Because then you’d have to put up with things like computer desktops with cats looking back at you, cups with stupid things written on them, like “Hello Monday”, and blurry pictures of people’s mediocre-looking children. You’d have to completely forget the idea of warming your feet on the radiator while drinking whisky out of a mug on a cold snowy Tuesday. You’d have to have a sense that clients and coworkers are more than just faces on a calendar week.
…and how is that worth my frequent flier points?
But maybe this problem is not entirely outside my scope of expertise. As it is I have a problem with the way I’m doing things, or the way I perceive them. I need to fix the way I’m doing things, or else find a new way to do it. In terms of what I would tell my clients, I’m spending too much time trying to re-engineer a bad process, as I often blame them of doing. Maybe it’s time to find a new process. Maybe it’s time to take some of my own drugs.
–
Sometimes you recognize wisdom in the most unlikely of places. Like, for example, Turkish digital projectors.
At a meeting in Istanbul I sat back in my chair and took a deep breath, my mind fighting to keep the lights on and the lids up. The voices in the room droned on and on about something I couldn’t have been less interested in but needed to be. I am, after all, a professional.
As the speaker wrapped up and the pace changed a bit I started coming to, my senses resharpening in the expectation that soon I’d be on a flight out of that place. But not before I noticed something on the screen.
The projected image was flickering and people were bothered by it. The speaker checked her notebook for a bad connection, and someone else checked the projector, smacking it lightly like a misbehaving child.
Very technical.
I noticed that no one had bothered to read the white text on the blue background of the shutdown screen that was flickering, which read: “The Lamp is getting old. Buy a spare lamp.”
Huh, I thought. I think I might be on to something.
Posted in Rants | No Comments…
“Here,” says Nate, “drink this.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a cheeseburger.”
“What?”
“A cheeseburger.”
“It looks like a beer. Shitty too, from the smell of it. And what the fuck is that red thing floating at the bottom of it?”
“It’s a cherry; a cherry and a lemon.”
“What kind of mad combination is that to put in a beer?”
“Just drink your beer normally. When you get to the last gulp, I swear to God, it’ll taste like a cheeseburger.”
“… What?”
“I don’t think it works at sea level, but I think we’ve got enough altitude here,” Henry offers. Shak looks suspicious. I’m confused.
“I’m confused,” I say.
Nate nods. “Drink.”
I drink. I chug a bit at first, looking at his pale face turned golden through the horrible bite back of Pabst on tap. God, I needed this. And this shitty, well-lit and mostly empty Portland bar was the place to do it.
I pause about halfway through. “Last gulp, huh?”
“I’m telling you, man. A goddamn cheeseburger. You’ll see.”
Dammit. As if things weren’t weird enough lately. 4 months into my European stint I hadn’t seen as much as a hair toss in any bar in Amsterdam. No drugs to speak of, just loads and loads of lonely whiskey, vodka and pea soup and to boot, a rigorous exercise schedule that had put my gut at sophomore year levels. Sophomore year in high school. Without sounding like a narcissistic bastard, can I say a thing like that? What can a thing like that even mean?
Then suddenly a trip to Spain and Morocco explodes right in my face and it earns more than its fair share of hookups and romances, none of them expected and all of them exciting and forbidden by rules left unwritten in all but the most distant and turbid corners. Friends suddenly came to visit and the craziness started.
“How’s the pot here, man?” Dave asks me.
“I don’t know man, I don’t smoke,” I told him.
“Why not?” he asked. A fair question, especially here.
“Just haven’t.” I said. I don’t like fair questions.
“Never even been curious?”
“Have you ever wondered what it’s like to be gay?” I asked him.
“You insensitive fuck, I AM gay!” He retored. Oops.
“Fine, fine, whatever,” I said. “Have you ever wondered what it’s like not to be gay?”
“Fair question.” He said, and thought about it. “Yeah.”
“Have you tried it?”
“No.”
“How do you know wouldn’t like it?”
“And what if I did like it?”
“Exactly.” I said, winning the debate.
“What about shrooms?” Brooke offered. “No wait, shrooms won’t work for you.”
“What? Why not?” I asked.
“You’re a shitty drunk, Bird. You talk too goddamn much,” she said. Which was true.
“I usually do anyway.”
“Yeah,” Brooke responded, “but when you’re drunk and someone mentions their weed is from Oregon the first thing you say is, ‘oh, like Ken Kesey,’ and then you launch into romancing the American Northwest and things like hunting wild mushrooms and logging…you weirdo.”
“So what?” I asked.
“Bird, who the fuck besides you, Trevor and Nate even knows WHO Ken Kesey is? And of those who know - who cares? And what kind of shit-faced book junkie would even bring up Ken Kesey at a time like that?”
“So what’s this got to do with doing shrooms?” I asked her.
“Well…you’re also too self-confident with your talents, and possessive too. I’m just saying that, on shrooms, some people light fires, some see the Earth breathe and some people jump off balconies. You’d probably behave like Jack Kerouac and go rummaging through old stacks of paper looking for a long enough scroll to write enough crap on to last you your entire high. And while no one could even read it, you’d claim it a masterpiece until you woke up 2 days later in the Van Gogh Museum.”
“No, you can’t do shrooms,” Dave agreed.
“What’s left?” I asked.
“C’mon,” Dave said. “I saw sign back there that said they served Absinthe.”
“Guys, wait,” I said. “This is the kind of talk that is going to lead to a series of events that will end up with one of us in a Belgian prison while the other one lies dead or worse on the frozen deck of a tourist boat in Budapest.” I know it sounds bad, but I was right, dammit. I know about these things. But that’s another story.
In any case, the friends came and went. Other business trips came and went too and were well enjoyed. All of them yielded much craziness, tempestuous women on the margins of the civilized world and fast shots lit on fire, some of which were absinthe. And I was right.
And ye gods - none of it was a good idea.
But who cares? These are the years for miscreant behavior of this kind, and I’ll be damned if the wild animals of Amsterdam OR Portland were going to stop our golden youthful age. Not these horsemen, sister. A mini-fridge full of fireworks, a perfect mountain covered in fresh snow, a cold city filled with meth freaks and vegan law students and enough scotch and bourbon to wreck a pack of camels, we did the New Year thing right.
Just ask T.
–
In any case, last year started off like a god-damned… what did I call it? Like a god-damned Dear Abby column. That is NO way to start off a year. Years must be started off with epic tales of surviving deathly hangovers in Oregonian forests of gleaming beauty, with explosions of childish glee, with drunken hordes and merry times, and with friends yelling, “SHIT, NATE SHOT A BOTTLE ROCKET UP MY SHIRT” while their girlfriends stare at them and me with abject terror and utter disbelief.
That’s how this year started, my friends. What could go wrong?
Indeed.
My girl left me sober
I don’t know what to do
I turn the bourbon upside down
but she’s across the ocean blue
These are my At-a-lantic Blues…
Oh Lord, my At-a-lantic Blues…
I call her: trans-atlantic
Confusing dusk with dawn
We talk for 20 minutes sexy,
But now my minutes are all gone
I’ve got the At-a-lantic Blues…
Yeeaaah, the At-a-lantic Blues…
The problem’s geographic,
And understood by few,
I don’t know how I’m gonna solve it,
But I’ll just keep playin’ ’till I do
To fight the At-a-lantic Blues…
Hoooaaaah, the At-a-lantic Blues…
Posted in Anecdotes, Rants | No Comments…
The message came in much earlier, sometime around 22:00 last night but I was somewhere else, maybe watching LOST in Spanish or at a bar, or something. Yeah, that’s it - when her message came in I was at a bar in the casco viejo of Madrid.
The bar was all dark wood, carved by the hands of artists. And I don’t mean just the bar either, like, just a plank of hand-sculpted wood on which to serve drinks. No. The whole establishment was one large cave of mahogany or something. If you farted or your cell phone vibrated, I’m sure the whole place would feel it. I didn’t really realize it until my eyes got used to the dim lights and the Buena Vista Social Club started playing loud Cuban music out of the jukebox. The rusty metal signs were hand-made for sure, bent with pliers and cut with hack saws. Sangria and olive oil was kept consistently within arm’s reach of everybody, probably for good measure, and a smoked leg of ham stood propped on the bar on some home-made stand with its hoof out, like a dog ready to shake paws. It was almost carved to the bone but there were still another couple of hours worth of raw meat from that pork.
But the rafters of the place; they really did me in. I like old rafters the way older men like Buicks and Cadillacs and, in some cases, Volkswagens. The beam was supported by a strange thing indeed, a shape which both terrified me and captivated my eyes and my fantasies. My attention was ensnared and I couldn’t look away. It was, on closer inspection, a wooden sculpture of a sinewy human form, deathless for eons and sickly thin. Like a slave sailor on an old Spanish Galleon, it was positioned hunched over with its feet on the wall about 2 meters up, with the rafter over its shoulders, as if supporting the falling mast of a ship. If the wall had been the floor instead and the ceiling, the figure might have been sitting against a tree trunk with its knees bent, its arms grabbing the tree behind its head. Dark visions clouded my thoughts and it called into being all kinds of pictures of angel and images of vampires, pale mariners in the dark and the punished souls of demons. And in a place that full of sangria, it scared the ever-loving shit right out of me.
On the hand-painted walls, poor stucco jobs half-covered images of pistol-toting Mexican mermaids with conch shells covering their tits and dangling from their ears. The stucco was spattered, which had the effect of muffling the shouts of “cerveza” or “sangria: aqui.” On the walls where there weren’t images of flamenco-dancing beauties, lonely Guernikan nights, ancient masts for rafters or Bauhaus-twisted iron you saw things like rusting knights’ helmets, tastefully chosen warm Spanish colors and lots, and lots of vino.
…and I got mixed up in that Basque wine, half French, half Spanish with no identity to speak of and barely an identifiable language with which to associate. But I was under control, which is rare these days. I knew where I was, as I recognized that place from a few months earlier when I had spent a grand total of 16 hours in this city, 4 of which were spent on finding the hotel, 8 of which were spent on much needed sleep after careening around Europe for the last 2 weeks, 2 of them were spent in a movie, leaving another 2 to walk the streets of Madrid. And I recognized it immediately: Plaza Santa Ana. That was where we’d walked, had a Spanish tortilla, where it had all ended for them and started for me.
That’s also where, this time around, I decided that I was done with Madrid, at least for the time being. Having come to Madrid two weeks before, I’d already had my share of adventures and women and drink here. From the bar explosions to the distant clients, from the large city and its smog to the German Mädchen of fresh scents in the Tarifa adventure, I’d had too many fast times in that place. I needed rest.
So long, sucker - I have no more use for you. And all that.
It was off to the hotel in a fast cab, straight past the flirtatious reception girls that I would later take out on a few dates. But not tonight. Tonight was smack into my unfamiliar bed. FLOP! SLAM! Buenas noches.
–
Right. And here I am again, the sheets tossed around like an angry badger had it’s way with the place, and I’m no closer to sleep than Arnold is to the presidency. It worries me a little, by the way, that he’s even mentioned it, and a lot more that imbeciles talk about it like there was any fact or depth to that story at all. But that’s not what is troubling me tonight. No.
She had sent me a text message, a flirty kind of quick poke, a soft hello. An “I’m here, come and get me” scheme that rolled me out of bed and kept me there for far too long, reminiscing of kisses stolen on narrow streets in the dark, of windy lands far from here, of fast times since past.
It was Jana, the temptress from Tarifa, the sweet-smelling German girl who couldn’t stop saying my name in that weekend that I managed to escape from Madrid to Morocco. In her German accent, I would’ve been fine with hearing it until the sun came up. Now, in the silence of my hotel room, all I had of her was a little SMS icon blinking on my phone screen.
Granted, she was thinking of me, or at least that she had thought of me long enough to invest in some coordinated thumb-punching activities for a few minutes to let me know about it. That’s a sign kids; write it down.
And don’t get me wrong; I’m all for German babes with hot smiles and fast kisses thinking of me when I’m not around, and I was really into this chick. But she hadn’t responded to a message I’d left her 4 days earlier and I’d written her off as another great story and a memory that, while it would take longer to fade than others, would still fade nonetheless. Then that message went unanswered for 5 hours on a train ride through southwestern Spain. Then a day. Then 2. I’d been focused on obtuse clients and maddeningly bureaucratic business processes for the last two days -and now this
Where was the discipline? Where was the commitment to the dour principles of self-discovery, preservation and improvement? Where was the notion that I resent the very concept of girlfriends while my trek is underway? Where was the “Nooosssssssir, no anchors for me, thanks” - and all that?
Well. It almost went to pieces.
Yeah, I responded, and even proofread before I sent the thing. Yes, I sent an SMS back because the girl made me that jittery. I did almost lose my nerve and suggest that we meet up again since Germany isn’t all that far away from The Netherlands and I did have an episode of insomnia over the whole thing and yes, that’s why my sheets looked like a family of possums just had a lot of fun wrestling on my bed.
But I said “almost”. Did you forget who you’re dealing with here? I’m better now, and when I get done writing this, I’ll actually go to sleep, I think.
And why not? I loved it, babe, and you were special in those series of moments. That I was anything at all to you is sunshine on my heart; I never expected even that much. It was all for me at the time, and it was all I could get; there were no calculated risks, no saving anything for later. It was all out there - the way I roll. There was no pacing myself, giving some and taking a sustainable amount. What I saw was for the taking was pillaged and plundered, and I never looked back.
And don’t forget the rum, eh?
But I suspect that you too know something of fleeting moments. In that way we’re both folk of the road; we’ve both shared intimacy with others for extended, almost obscene amounts of time (in many senses of the word) and know that the term “one size fits all” never applied to us anyway. It’s not our bag, kid.
So I feel revived now. I’m glad this has all happened as it has and I think I’ll get a nap in before the next round of storms clears the horizon, or at least enough sleep to hold me off until my flight out of here tomorrow. But rest assured that “honey, I’m home” is far from anything I’ll ever say again without bursting into either gut-wrenching heaves, side-splitting laughter or desperate sobs of woe and fear of what I’ve allowed myself to become.
I’ve still got it.
Madrid, Spain — November, 2007
Alberto Aguilera NH, Room 403
Posted in Anecdotes, Rants, Travels | No Comments…
Fortunately, the afternoon was dark and threatened rain on that day when the clocks went back. I went from bar to cafe, from church to lounge, reading my books, writing my words. The body was not hung over, but the mind was acting as if it thought it should be.
Inside an English pub I heard the jeers and cheers that were probably attributable to a football game of some kind. The bright light of a tourist’s camera flashed against a store window and slapped me across the face. The day was not making a whole lot of sense to me but at least it was confounding me in a way that was not insulting, however intrusive. It was letting me know I could keep on walking. I did.
In general, it was a wasted day whose sole purpose was to be wasted, falling into reality, or else climbing back into it, depending on how you judge the debauched fun that our merriment last night produced.
For a party of 8 people, it was one hell of a party. Sure, the Dutch don’t really do Halloween, and sure, they won’t all necessarily come just because you invite them 3 months in advance. And they don’t all dance forro. But I do dammit, and I wanted a damn Halloween party nonetheless. And if I’d had to decorate my own apartment and stock my own fridge and paint my own damn nails black, I would have.
Thankfully, there was help. There was a moment though, after all the decorations had gone up and the nails were black and the costume was ready and a couple of drinks had even already been poured when I stood and waited. Nothing left to do, nothing left to plan, just wondering, doubting, me and the empty living room.
“Well, living room, I guess even if no one shows up, it’s been one hell of an afternoon, eh?” It doesn’t respond, as living rooms hate idle chatter. Also, living rooms can’t talk.
“You know, ‘room, it’s been a strange trip, so far, this moving abroad thing. Why am I doing this? What do I want to get out of it? I can’t really say — getting something out of it was never a goal I’d thought about, you know?” It knows.
“Was it adventure? Was it style? Was it accents? Shit, it could have been for the accents. Sometimes I’m just shallow like that. Yeah, it’s best that you don’t respond to that any how. Pretend I didn’t say that.
“But that doesn’t matter; this move, it was never a means. I wasn’t running, toward or away from anything. I just needed for this to happen or something. The horizon is always my end; it’s always my means too. What does that say about me?”
–
“You know, living room, you’re a great listener and you hold a lot of answers, but your public speaking skills leave a whole lot to be desired.
“Anyway, maybe I should clarify, because there’s got to be a root cause. There’s always a root cause in informational science and this is definitely informational. Why am I always seeking to be different, to stand out? I don’t like attention; so why do it?
“Now pay attention, because this is the important part. I think what it amounts to is that I like the attention that I give myself. I like the self-admiration that I feel when I do something I know is original. Something that validates - to me - that I’m an intelligent dude and that I know what’s up. Does that make sense? Is self validation a legitimate vice in vanity?”
It’s a good thing the doorbell rang just then, because I wouldn’t have known how to explain it better if the living room hadn’t understood, and then it would’ve gotten awkward.
And after that? After that we danced. My pirate costume was better than ever thanks in no small part to the gloriously cool initiative of my good friend, Clair, who had the insight, the drive and the initiative to consider that most of my pirate gear did not make it onto the “Pete’s Life: Volume I” box in the move to Amsterdam. Not only did she think of this, she then goes out and gets me some pirate gear and proceeds to send said pirate gear clear across the Atlantic.
Clair, are you listening? I had already promised you a beer next time I see you - are you ready for this?
Are you ready?
2 beers.
There, I said it. I give; I’m just like that.
[Clair will have my head for that, so I hope you're all entertained; it probably cost her, like, 200 mangoes just to ship the thing!]
Seriously, it made my costume come to life. It’s not that I’m not really a pirate, I just have a hard time looking like one. But with a dagger that has phrases written on it like
- May she carry the swift and the beating heart of worthy men…
- Bring me that horizon, drink up me hearties, YO HO!
- We are the beaches of Normandy the night before
- Douchebag fender-offer
well, then you’re all pirate. Black fingernails and eye-shadow just don’t hurt, know what I mean?
Posted in Anecdotes, Rants | No Comments…