The Drunken Blog

I’ve always wanted to be a lawyer.  At least, my mom has always wanted me to be a lawyer, or a doctor, or an astronaut, or the President.  I guess that’s what mom’s do, hope that their children take up amazing professions and make lots of money so that the parents will be taken care of in their old age.  Well, I considered being a lawyer, I even took the LSAT, which is the admittance test for law school.

The LSAT, as it tends to do, didn’t even have the common decency to lube up before it had its way with me.  It was not a pleasant experience.  And yet, I’m still considering going into law school, and I have several friends who agree with that notion.  It would fit in well with my current career, but of course, it’s expensive and takes a lot of time.

And why bother going to law school when you can sue somebody without going?  You just have to make sure you sue somebody for less than $5000, which is what I’m doing.

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I know my mom reads my blog, but I don’t think my grandma does, so I should be OK in writing this. This past weekend (please note, this was originally written back in August) it was my grandfather’s 80th birthday, which means that his children and grandchildren from across the country congregated to celebrate this calculated event. But as with most birthday parties, there was an ulterior motive for their gathering – deciding whether or not my grandmother (who divorced my grandfather years and years ago) and who lives alone, should continue to live alone, or if they should put her in a home.

Apparently cooking steak in a toaster oven isn’t considered normal.
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I was in DC recently for Lisa’s birthday party. The plan initially was to start at Rumor’s and barhop. I had a feeling the barhopping wouldn’t happen because it’s hard to coordinate a large group of people leaving one bar and going to another bar.

We stayed at Rumor’s the entire night, and through the process I become somewhat intoxicated, so much so, in fact, that I decided to lower my standards. I spotted two girls that weren’t ugly by any means, but they weren’t exactly Perfect 10s, and they might have been a bit on the “meatier” side, although I wouldn’t go so far as to call them fat, despite the fact that I called one of them “Fat Tina Fey.”

I got Will to come with me, since there were two of them and we started dancing. The one girl didn’t want anything to do with Will, which was odd, since Will was out of her league. But I continued dancing with my girl, who I quickly dubbed Fat Tina Fey. Tina Fey, of course, was one of the lead writers for SNL, she also did the Daily Update, and most recently she is on the show 30 Rock, which happens to be one of my favorites.
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Jake and Jules had a combined birthday party recently. It made sense, they went to high school together, they have a lot of the same friends, why not combine their resources to make one cool party, as opposed to two mediocre-to-cool parties?

The plan was simple; since everybody was tired of the Ballroom, find a new location for the party. That new location happened to be very convenient for Jake and me; that new location was our building. Not our apartment, mind you, but the two rooms that we rented out in our building for this specific event.

One of the rooms was a game room. It had several TVs, a pool table, a foosball table, a dart board, several tables and a chic couch. It was a pretty swanky place to have a party. But Jake was afraid that it would be too cramped in there and/or there would not be enough entertainment for everybody.

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Halloween is a magical time of year. It’s a chance for guys to show their creativity by coming up with humorous and/or grotesque and/or ironic costumes, and it’s a chance for girls to show off their “creativity” by dressing as slutily as possible. Really everybody wins. Since guys typically like girls based solely on their looks it makes it even easier for guys to pick out girls; of course, just because it’s easier to pick them out doesn’t mean that it’s any easier to pick them up.

It’s not just the guys that make out on Halloween, although I’m sure that is what all girls think that don’t dress up slutily. If anything, girls have even more of an advantage in terms of choosing winners during Halloween than do guys. You see, often times a costume will reflect a person’s personality. If you see a guy that has a T-shirt that says “Free breathalyzer” and has an arrow pointing at his crotch, you can be pretty sure that in addition to being unoriginal, he is probably a douche.
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Vegas day 3 started off with a bang. I had stumbled back to my place at around 5 AM and I passed out almost as soon as my head hit the pillow. The next two hours were the most glorious two hours of my life, because after those two hours, I was awakened. Not in the normal way one would expect to be awakened, though, no, in Vegas everything is done up, and having people wake you up is no exception.

Apparently my friends decided that it would be a lot of fun not to sleep at all that night, so they stayed out until about 7 and then came back to the room. My buddy Ahab was deliriously tired. He ran into the room yelling “wake up, bitches!” So, begrudgingly, I complied. You see, it was our plan to go to Rehab, which is a pool party at one of the Casinos. Not just any pool party, though, this is an exclusive pool party, so exclusive that it costs $40 to get in, and you have to wait 3 hours in line to get in. The pool opened at 11, so we wanted to get in line around 8AM to be among the first ones in.
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One interesting fact about Oh, Vegas, is that you’re always hungover. It’s not a great feeling, but it kind of goes with the territory. The key, then, is to overcome the hangover. There are numerous ways to do this; the most common is to continue drinking. On Saturday morning we did a combination move to get rid of our headaches. We went to the pool, drank some, and passed out.

Well, some of us passed out, and others didn’t drink, but collectively, we drank and passed out. It’s been my experience that the only sin in Sin City is to sleep at night. Sleeping during the day is fine, that’s the cheapest way to pass the time until you can go out the next night, but if you go to sleep before 5am your friends are going to laugh at you.
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Every once in a while people come up with something that my friend James terms as “a million dollar idea.” He meant it in the literal sense, where you come up with a product and are able to sell that product for a million dollars, like the pet rock. My idea is not marketable, but that doesn’t make it any less valuable. They often say that necessity is the mother of invention, so let me give you some background on my mother.

This past weekend was the last summer concert of the year, which is a bit odd because I wouldn’t really consider October to be the summer (apparently people that make calendars agree with me), but then again, I also don’t think of country music as music, so I guess it all works out in the end. This concert was Brad Paisley. I have no clue what his “hit” is; if I hadn’t gone to this concert I wouldn’t even be able to pick him out of the crowd if he was wearing a nametag. Such is my devotion for the fine art of country music.
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My mom has always told me that I’m a rock star, or some variation thereof. And while I don’t actually play any instruments I just assume she talks about me being a rock star in the same way that the Shop Boyz talk about partying like a rock star: she doesn’t mean that I am literally a rock star, she means I am like a rock star. I think she makes the comparison because of my drinking habits.

But lately some events have transpired that made me feel like a rock star for reasons other than my drinking habit. For instance, a librarian from Georgia stumbled across my site and asked to use one of my pictures for a book he was helping a local author put together. I’m not sure how a librarian from Georgia came across this site, but it’s pretty cool to have one of your pictures published. Granted, I’m not being paid for my work (and I’ll actually probably shell out money to buy it) but I’m not paying for the honor of having my work published, which is a big step in the right direction.
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Everybody knows baseball as an analogy for sex. At least, I thought everybody knows what the bases mean, until I brought it up in conversation as fact and I was questioned, “Well, what do you consider second base” they queried. I told them what second base was, but they didn’t agree.

I silently thought to myself, “But it’s second base, how do you not know what second base is?”

For the uninformed, I will list my bases, with which I think most of you will agree:
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