goblinbox

In which I relate the story of my not-terribly-exciting Friday night.

Last night, I worked until ten and then went to see C- play drums over at Pub 21 (which is basically not a new venue, but just the name of the stage they’ve put in over at Merchant’s Deli).

I sat in on the band’s second-to-last song and belted out a blues chart. (S- got video of it that I’ll link to later.)

During the last song, I danced with a drunk guy. He fell down. He said, “Holy shit, dancin’ with the fuckin’ singer. Mlubblumbummurrph.” Then he spent 24 bars trying to chest bump with me. I said, “This is blues. Moshing isn’t really appropriate.” He said, “Mlubblumbummurrph.”

Then the gig was over and the joint cleared out quick and I stood in the parking lot and talked to L- about her obnoxious and painful ovarian cysts. Poor girl’s about to start major estrogen therapy next week, and she’s barely into her twenties.

Since it was only quarter after eleven, I drove over to Issacs street. The BK Lounge provided me with a Whopper with cheese, no meat (which apparently contains 600 calories even without the meat). The PnE provided me with companionship – there were maybe four people there, including the staff – and a couple of cocktails.

I was in bed by one in the morning… and boy I was pissed off when my alarm went off at nine o’clock this morning! Gah! (Not half as pissed as I’ll be when it goes off at SEVEN tomorrow, though.)

A- dropped by the office early this afternoon to print something, and called me sweetie and rubbed my shoulders. I could just eat that kid up with a spoon. Srsly.