Sorry I've been a bit scarce this weekend. I had comedy shows Friday night and tonight, which is no excuse.
(And once I put the clips up for you to see, you'll likely agree that it's really no excuse. Frankly, I don't have a good excuse for much of anything I do, but I'm coming to grips with that. This is one life that should probably be left 'unexamined', you know what I mean?)
But if that doesn't adequately explain my absence, then maybe this will:
On Saturday night -- starting at six, I might add -- I went along on a pub crawl with some folks celebrating the impending marriage of two people in our little circle of friends.
(Wait, is 'impending' the wrong word there? That makes it seem so ominous -- like people play the Death Star theme at weddings, instead of 'Here Comes the Bride'. That's not what I meant. Really.
Maybe 'upcoming' would be better. Or 'eagerly awaited'. 'Rapidly approaching'? 'Looming'? Damn. Back to the scary music mood again. Just insert your own phrase for 'impending', and let's get the hell on with this thing, shall we?)
Now, first of all, the pub crawl lasted nine hours. That's nine, people, which is one hell of a lot of crawling. So yesterday was pretty much shot right there. I have many days when I'm not even awake for nine hours; if you stick me in a bar with a bunch of people and let me drink for that long, then forget anything else getting done that day. I can't function properly after that -- what do I look like, a Kennedy over here?
As for today... well, let's just say that I learned what they call a 'life lesson' from our little adventure last night:
'Never, never, never, ever start a pub crawl -- or any other sane activity, for that matter -- with two rounds of scorpion bowls.'
This morning, I woke up with a pounding headache, a hurty tummy, and the taste of pineapple juice and ass in my mouth. This combination does not a happy Sunday make, folks. I wouldn't recommend it.
But, I did recover enough -- just enough -- to get through the show, and I'm feeling pretty okay now. Except I'm exhausted, so I'm leaving you on your own again, until I can get fourteen hours or so of sleep under my belt. I just thought I'd check in first, to let you know I'm not dead. Even though I wished for death at several different points today. If I'd had the strength, I'd have committed seppuku with my electric toothbrush. It wasn't a pretty morning, people.
Oh, before I go, I would be remiss -- and have been remiss, for almost a week now -- if I didn't mention the lucky, determined, mutli-talented and much-appreciated winner of the '100,000th blog customer' award. And it's none other than our good friend Shelley, from Cynical: A Life. Shelley has chosen as her gift a selfless and noble contribution to the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, a local hospital devoted to wiping out malignancy in all its biological forms. And -- as you Red Sawks fans already know -- the founders of the Jimmy Fund, which raises money for cancer research with walks and bike rides and races of all kinds. And has a sign prominently displayed in Fenway Pahk, so it's wicked pissah, guy.
So, stop by and see Shelley -- congratulate her, applaud her generosity, or just tell her you're jealous. It's all good, as the weekend wraps itself up. And -- speaking of the Red Sox -- here's a little joke I'm pretty sure I've never burdened you with before, in homage to MLB's opening day today:
'So, a lot of people around Boston are worried how the Sox are going to do this year, now that they've finally won a World Series. The way I look at it, the only thing that ever stopped this team was an evil, vindictive curse cast on them by a fat, angry, drunken old pitcher.
So... as long as we keep David Wells knee-deep in pork rinds and bourbon through October, I like our chances!'
Thank you, thank you -- I'll be here all season. You've been a great stadium. Good night, folks!