So.... drink much?
Very bizarre what alcohol does. Not just to my thought process but my spelling and typing.
Here is the story of 6pm last night to 3 pm today:
I arrive home to find Jason and his brother have made it to my house and have already been drinking. J is my former roommate from LA. It takes a bit for us to shower (individually) and get to walking down Mission to the Big Dipper roller coaster where we "entertain" tourists with our over-enjoyment of the ride. Then we're on to a famos pizza place, where much more drinking ensues and J's brother looks as if he's had a bit much.
It was my idea, I sadly confess, to walk home by way of the beach. Since I seemed to be only slightly buzzed I was not so patient to wait on the others who lingered and lolled at a pace liken to that of my dead grandmother. I made it home first where I wrote the brilliant previous journal entry and sent out at least one e-mail which I can only hope wasn't as full of mind sedating revelations. A few minutes later Kel and J arrive asking me where the brother is.
A search for the bro began along the Pacific and ended just past the couple having sex in the sand when I saw two angry police officers
questioning the poor fellow. I sprinted up to the group and promised the authorities that I would take my clearly inebriated friend (who was mostly concerned with the fact that he had lost his shoes) straight home. According to the female officer, J's Bro had been "scaring" young beach goers. The nearest people to him were a few 15-16 year old boys. Hmmm. Still being unclear on this man's sexual preference, this raised an eyebrow for both Kel and I.
Anyway, getting a 40 year old drunk man to walk 3/4 of a mile while watching him stomp and complain about his mysteriously displaced shoes is very similar to escorting a five year old away from an ice cream vendor empty handed.
Finally, with everyone in the house, I decided to let Kel and J have my room and climbed up to her bunk in the bedroom where Colbs was already fast asleep.
Six hours later I woke to discover the bro was gone from the house again, Fearing the likely still drunk man had gone back to the sand to search for his shoes and wound up shark food, Kel and I made some coffee and began yet another search. Happily, bro was discovered quickly with a paper cup of cofffee in his hand and a newspaper.
After a brisk walk along the shore we managed to get downtown to experience a place called "Cafe Lulu". I want to be sure you know the name because you should make a note to NEVER GO THERE for any reason. Unless, of course you like fruit flies, communicating with angry Swiss women and eating a crackpot entree made from the cheapest ingreients of the Cosco frozen section and paying above average prices for the concoction.
In the end, J got back on the road before the promised time today and the sheets on my bed have already been changed. Kel says they didn't even do the full deed. The only real damage seems to be that I have discovered my alcohol tolerance is so low that 2 beers will move me into philisophical confessions of which I am unsure of the motive.
I am a cliche. I do want what I can't have. But I've always known that, haven't I?
Very bizarre what alcohol does. Not just to my thought process but my spelling and typing.
Here is the story of 6pm last night to 3 pm today:
I arrive home to find Jason and his brother have made it to my house and have already been drinking. J is my former roommate from LA. It takes a bit for us to shower (individually) and get to walking down Mission to the Big Dipper roller coaster where we "entertain" tourists with our over-enjoyment of the ride. Then we're on to a famos pizza place, where much more drinking ensues and J's brother looks as if he's had a bit much.
It was my idea, I sadly confess, to walk home by way of the beach. Since I seemed to be only slightly buzzed I was not so patient to wait on the others who lingered and lolled at a pace liken to that of my dead grandmother. I made it home first where I wrote the brilliant previous journal entry and sent out at least one e-mail which I can only hope wasn't as full of mind sedating revelations. A few minutes later Kel and J arrive asking me where the brother is.
A search for the bro began along the Pacific and ended just past the couple having sex in the sand when I saw two angry police officers
questioning the poor fellow. I sprinted up to the group and promised the authorities that I would take my clearly inebriated friend (who was mostly concerned with the fact that he had lost his shoes) straight home. According to the female officer, J's Bro had been "scaring" young beach goers. The nearest people to him were a few 15-16 year old boys. Hmmm. Still being unclear on this man's sexual preference, this raised an eyebrow for both Kel and I.
Anyway, getting a 40 year old drunk man to walk 3/4 of a mile while watching him stomp and complain about his mysteriously displaced shoes is very similar to escorting a five year old away from an ice cream vendor empty handed.
Finally, with everyone in the house, I decided to let Kel and J have my room and climbed up to her bunk in the bedroom where Colbs was already fast asleep.
Six hours later I woke to discover the bro was gone from the house again, Fearing the likely still drunk man had gone back to the sand to search for his shoes and wound up shark food, Kel and I made some coffee and began yet another search. Happily, bro was discovered quickly with a paper cup of cofffee in his hand and a newspaper.
After a brisk walk along the shore we managed to get downtown to experience a place called "Cafe Lulu". I want to be sure you know the name because you should make a note to NEVER GO THERE for any reason. Unless, of course you like fruit flies, communicating with angry Swiss women and eating a crackpot entree made from the cheapest ingreients of the Cosco frozen section and paying above average prices for the concoction.
In the end, J got back on the road before the promised time today and the sheets on my bed have already been changed. Kel says they didn't even do the full deed. The only real damage seems to be that I have discovered my alcohol tolerance is so low that 2 beers will move me into philisophical confessions of which I am unsure of the motive.
I am a cliche. I do want what I can't have. But I've always known that, haven't I?
You may have something there with the dream thing. That, and I'd just recently decided to go with a WWII theme for my office so I'd been thinking about WWII stuff.