2003-03-08 || 6:02 p.m.

|| hangovers and stools and boys wielding wood ||

it's six o'clock and i have no idea where the day went. brian and i stumbled over to the punk rawk cafe in hopes of counteracting the unlikely hangovery feelings from happy hour the night before (hello happy hour friends! so nice to see you in the hott flesh! my head aches from your righteousness!) and tried to drink away the sloshy feelings with ample amounts of coffee. my long lost very attractive roommate was our waiter, greeting us on the patio with a bottle of budweiser in one hand and a plate of pancakes in the other. i'm pretty sure the fella sitting in the corner was famous in that maybe operation ivy type way. the waitresses were incredibly beautiful and tattooed and perfectly coiffed. we shivered in shade and conspired over biscuits and pancakes that a. we will go ahead with clandestine plans for a waiting for guffman live show (we sang the stool song to try it out); b. we will go ahead with the t-shirt ideas of "i'm with gay" (mine) with an arrow pointing to bri and "not the boyfriend" (his) with an arrow pointing to me, to stop the disconnecting lines of check-outs that have been plaguing us of late.

after all that coffee and questionable punkrawkety star sightings, we drove to urban ore to find the stool befitting the said guffman live show. it was twenty-five dollars and most definitely not worth twenty-five dollars (a running theme throughout that place, sheee-ite. lamp shade with a hole in it? thirty dollars! broken frame? eighteen dollars! the yuppies hath ruined proper scavenging in this town.). we wandered around any way and i spotted the dreamiest boy wielding large pieces of wood. yeah i said it. so i followed him around, catching glimpses through said holes in lampshades and under desks and between record bins and. oh. so lovely. and then he caught me in the middle of the aisle by the wall of mugs (one of which brian got.. something about women having to do men's work because we get it right the first time) and i was stuck like a deer in the headlights of a lovely bespectacled boy wielding large wood and i half smiled and then promptly hid behind a rack of sweatshirts.

goddamn it all to hell.

solution: be heavily intoxicated at all times. no more of this sober/very shy business. i am trading my morning coffee for night train. i am sure the punk rock cafe will happily accommodate me.

previous || next || random

guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land