One of our systems here at work puked all over itself a couple weeks ago. Ever since then, we've been taking turns sitting in the war room, watching the numbers in case another disaster flares up. It's a really quiet, boring job. Normally anyway. Today, the bulk of my work didn't start until after noon, when I took my seat and my turn watching paint dry in the war room.
Anyway, I have a couple eggs in my basket right now, but the biggest egg is homeownership, as BDC devotees already know. I'll let that one go, in this entry, I'll talk mostly about my evening out. I went out on Friday and had a great time.
Jeff and I met Eric down in the Crossroads, where Mark Funkhouser(our preferred mayoral candidate) gave a First Friday speech on his proposed policies. We were supposed to meet up with Eric's friend Mark at Mike Kelly's Westsider afterward, but he never showed. We enjoyed some dinner and Irish music before we piled back into Eric's car for Chez Charlie's.
We enjoyed ourselves there, though the smoke was a bit much for Jeff. We were about to call it a night when we stepped outside into the falling snow, exasperated that it had been over 70 only a few days earlier. Jeff looked to starboard and suggested that we head in that direction to Fitz' Blarney Stone, a bare 20-second walk away. Eric and I consented to further drinking.
My friend Modesta climbed out of a cab when we approached the door, gave me a stunned smile and said, "Hey, I know you!" She and a whole troop of her attractive friends were keeping the heating bills down inside. We went in and thoroughly appreciated the $5 pitchers of Flying Monkey. While we were there, some dude got the pride beat out of him in the bathroom, along with a startling quantity of blood. The bloody mess prompted the bartender to close off the bathroom and call the police, who arrived with startling speed.
We went to DB Cooper's after that, convinced that it was a 3am bar. It is not. It was at one time, but it is not now. The bartender headed us off on our way to a table and told us she had already called last call. She saw the sad looks on our faces, and almost immediately said, "oh, okay. one drink." We each ordered a PBR, and she retorted, "do you want a pitcher?" She obviously wasn't that interested in getting us out the door.
Jeff and I caught a cab home, ate pancakes, and called it a night. The next day dawned with a slight headache and a vigorous toothbrushing for the death-breath. Jeff's began with four trips to the toilet, as some microbe, he claims, was doing a little dance in his stomach. He was out for the day.
I require scuba gear on future visits to Midtown.
12:53 PM, Mar 6, 2007