My big night in Scottsdale. More Whiskey, less company. The big takeaway? Themed bars that would make Bar Rescue proud. Drink prices that seem more like the club life than a place for locals. That’s all I took from the experience. All my old hangouts were aged out. Probably many years ago. So, they didn’t even get my nostalgia dollars.
I did not set foot in any theater showing 50 Shades of Grey. I never read the books. What I have learned about it though, is a couple of important things: Plotwise, it’s basically Pretty Woman: Behind the Music. All those fancy clothes had a price. Women who go for the romance or the boning sometimes leave the theater anxious,…
Dear America As a human being, an American, a college graduate and a third-degree member of Phi Sigma Kappa, I am aghast at the conduct of SAE at the University of Oklahoma. I’m not terribly surprised, though. SAE has always been synonymous with dickweed (at least at Western and ASU). Back in the day, SAEs were notorious moneyed assholes. At…
Thank you, Sirius 70s on 7. Thank you for transporting me back to 1982. Rae? Mae? Some Phi Mu with curly short hair. Somehow, a kegger ends with some face mashing in the upstairs mini room with this song in the background. Thanks for the memory that I can’t shake.
Better a fond memory than the herpes. Trust me on this – Todd S.
You would think the lesson was clear enough from the first go ’round. Going to Eli’s means one of three things. (or 5, if you count “that you’re an idiot” twice.) you want another felony DUI stop, because that was fun. some chick (who might want to shag) suggested it. some chick (who assuredly DOES want to shag) suggested it.…
Here’s a fun fact about being a self-employed whatever the hell I am. To get business, you have to publish your contact info. You publish your contact info and people call you. Some of the people that are inclined to call you are batshit crazy.
It’s not always obvious.
Karma: Sometimes, it is.
I wake up on the floor. Not hungover, but buck naked like whiskey was in my recent past. And I am in suburban Detroit. I don’t remember being on a flight. There is someone’s pink robe, but it doesn’t cover everything. There is also a blanket for a makeshift kilt. That will make the apology for why I am there…
On stuffed jalapenos: To put it as delicately as possible, it’s like being kicked in the balls all night long, and then giving birth to a napalm and glass shard covered exploding plutonium cactus. (But it seemed like a good idea at the time.)
FYI, your mailman is watching you. Tracking who gets mail at your house. Maybe even logging the cars in your driveway.
I’m guessing he’d report on what he could see through the windows, if by chance it was noteworthy.
Somewhere in a cubicle, this information gets processed and dispersed. I know this, because the county assessor has “reason to believe” I don’t reside in my own home and wants to increase my taxes. That’s been cleared up, but what the fuck? Where is Charlie, the mailman when I was a kid. The guy who would stop and chat, and take a glass of lemonade in the summer. What happened to that guy?