The Night I Quit My Crappy Job

I have been to two tattoo parties in my life, and both were great fucking times. EagleMan threw both parties. The first was several years ago. It was a sobering event, even with the copious amount of alcohol that was drunken by all. EagleMan's father had just passed, and as a tribute to him, we threw a big party in his now empty apartment. Well, empty except for all the alcohol. It was a night for remembrance, a night for anecdotes, and a night to get so blitzed that we tried to forget why we were there. But it was still in the back of all of our minds, and we knew that the pain we felt upon entering the empty apartment would return again, along with a massive headache, in the morning. But for a few hours we could celebrate life, and take away the pain of loss, and that is what we did. Holy shit that is what we did.

The second tattoo party was only a couple weeks ago. EagleMan has thrown quite a few in his day, but I was usually out of the state when they were thrown (I made a special trip into town for the first one for obvious reasons). I was in town for this one, so of course I attended. You know my feelings on my job, and as luck would have it, I had to work the next day, which was a Sunday. This hardly pleased me, as it never does, but I vowed to myself to stop drinking and head home at 10. When I arrived, I was shoved towards the keg of Bud Light. The night went uphill from there.

So what is a tattoo party? It is a simple concept. A person throws a party. Among others, he invites a tattoo artist, not to party, but to do his thing. The artist can easily make close to a grand tattooing people in rapid succession, as the hum of house music penetrates the walls around him. Pretty damn good for a nights work. Everyone who comes to the party knows that there will be a tattoo artist there, so most of the people who attend want a tattoo. And they know that they will get a good deal. There is far more business at one tattoo party than there is during a regular day at a tattoo shop. At least per hour anyway. EagleMan always gets a tattoo during these parties, and he usually gets a huge discount, merely because he brought in a shit-load of business for the artist. [Note: this article is interesting but the tattoo artist here is a professional, and everything was extremely safe, hence the ten minutes (at least) between tattoos to change out his equipment.]

So I showed up at 8:30 with the best of intentions. Hangout for a while, drink a couple of beers, watch a couple of tattoos being done, and take off so I could get my beauty rest for my killer workday. Then, I was told about the keg. I quickly found a cup, and headed out to garage was the keg was resting. It was a glorious site. I cannot remember the last time I went to a kegger. I pumped, flipped the switch, and watched the golden liquid flow out the faucet. My dear friend Bud Light and I were about to take our relationship to the next level.

After filling my cup, I returned inside, and surveyed the scene. "I should go into Criminal Defense," I thought to myself. Of the 25 people there, there was probably an accumulated total of jail time served near my age. The tattoo artist had just gotten out of the joint, and it was not his first stint there. EagleMan's younger brother has probably spent close to three years in stir. I did not really know much about the other people there, but they did not seem to me to be straight-edge. The tattoo artist was even wearing a shirt with a picture of a guy holding a briefcase that said, "Jack Schitt, Esq." Yeah, these are my kind of people.

Nothing too terribly exciting actually happened at the party. At one point I began offering discounts on legal fees for anyone who mentioned EagleMan's name. So if the that is the highlight, it was a pretty boring party. Except for all the tattoos of course. I stationed myself close to the tattoo artist to watch him work. I love watching people draw, mainly because it is a skill that I do not have. People who can draw a straight line without sweat forming on their forehead piss me off, yet never fails to leave me amazed. The tattoo artist is pretty damn good too. He has done most of EagleMan's tats, the ones the tattoo artist has not done (because he was in jail), are clearly of inferior quality. This guy makes it look so easy, yeah, I am a little jealous.

I was not there to get a tattoo myself (I have none and do not plan on ever getting one). I went for the free beer. I certainly got my money's worth. Ten o'clock soon turned into eleven, which suddenly became midnight. Around midnight I began bitching to anyone who was next to me about how I hated my job, and I should just fucking quit it. Had I been sober, I would have realized that rationalizing things when you are hammered is not the best idea. But I was drunk, and by one I began to think that quitting was the best idea since college football.

Around 1:30 I was having trouble staying upright, and began wondering to myself why the hell I was still there. I had to get up at six for work, and the way things were going, each sip made that less and less likely. Then it hit me. I knew when I could leave. EagleMan still had not gotten his tattoo yet. "I have to stay to watch that," I drunkenly slurred to whoever was standing next to me at the time. That person quickly moved away. I went to get another beer.

By the time the tattoo artist finally began EagleMan's tattoo (on his right pec, what a stud), I was shitfaced. It is a damn good thing I only live two blocks from his house. The tattoo would take an hour to complete, and I was unable to stay for the whole thing. At 2:30, I finally had a rational thought that said, "You have to go home and go to bed RIGHT NOW!" I stumbled and swayed back to my house, spent two minutes trying to find the right key to unlock the door, wandered around for a while looking for my bed, found it, and crashed.

Lucky for me, I had the presence of mind to set my alarm clocks before I went out. And at 5:45 I was shocked awake. I flopped like a dolphin off my bed, five feet into the air if it was an inch. I reached blindly out into the dark room trying to figure out how to turn off my alarm clock, and finally succeeded. You should know that this is no ordinary alarm clock. This one does not make any noise at all.

All my life I have searched for a cartoon alarm clock, one that has a mallet come out and bash you on the head when it is time to wake up. My search has, thus far, been futile, so I settled on the next best thing. A vibrating alarm clock. It is a normal clock, but it comes with a pad that you put into your pillow case. When the alarm is tripped, your head begins shaking like it is the only part of your body in a 7.0 earthquake. And when your head starts shaking and you are still drunk, it is enough to wake you up so violently, that your heart begins beating 200 times a minute.

I got out of bed, and stood up, or tried too, I was a little wobbly. I really, really did not want to go to work, but I really only had to stick it out for two more weeks, then I would have a nice cushion of cash, such that I would not have to worry about money while waiting for my refund check from the Law School. I braced myself, and took a step. The room began to spin. I took a deep breath, and ventured to put my left foot in front of the right. I nearly vomited. I sat down on my bed, and thought about what to do.

This would not be the first time that I had driven to this job drunk. But it would be the first time I would be drunk at work and it was over 90 degrees outside. I decided that I should suck it up, and go to work. It wouldn't really be that bad. In 13 hours all this would be over. Sometime around nine, I would start to feel hungover, and the dehydration would hit, and probably last until one, and then there would only be six hours of work left.

At that last thought I said that is it. Fuck it. I could have called in sick, or called to tell them that I would not be coming in, but Fuck it. All the drinking on work nights was just me acting out my misery. Why should I continue? My drunken mind thought that to be brilliant reasoning. So I went back to bed. And slept. Until noon. It was transcendent.

A Wasp's Tale

Because it was so nice out, sunny but with a nice breeze, I decided to read outside. I packed up all my gear, book, smokes, lighter, iPod, coffee, and a glass of water, and headed out onto the back porch. Upon opening the screen door, I immediately saw my nemesis.

A wasp was having a grand old time hanging out on my chair. He was walking up and down the back like he owned the fucking thing. This wasp needed to be taught a lesson by another WASP. I calmly, and with as little movement as possible put down my reading gear, while the wasp continued his exercise, walking up and down the curvature at the top of the lawn chair.

Once I had dropped the dead weight, I beat a hasty retreat back into the house, seeking out the nearest magazine. I quickly found a two-month old double issue of SI. Perfect. I rolled it, and snuck back out. The wasp was where I left him, continuing his journey to nowhere. Summoning all of my Native American heritage (which is probably none), I quietly snuck up behind him, and delivered a mighty THWACK.

When I removed the magazine from the point of impact, the wasp was no where to be seen. He was not attached to the magazine nor the chair. Confused, I crouched down to see where his flattened body had landed. I did not see it anywhere. I looked high and low, but the wasp was gone. I quickly retreated into the house.

Once safely behind the impenetrable fortress that is my screen door, I evaluated my options. All my stuff was outside, including the book I wanted to read, as well as a possible super-wasp, who could not be killed by an ordinary strategically aimed magazine. But, one day I will be a lawyer. I am sure that I will walk into many situations where I will eventually be stung (though in the pocketbook, or at least the client's pocketbook), and sucked it up and headed back out to continue my search. I figured my search would be fruitless, and I could go ahead with reading my book, keeping one eye on the words and one eye to the sky.

I saw him almost at once. He was four feet from where I attempted to murder him, hidden underneath a table. Half of his body had been smashed, and he could no longer fly. He was pulling himself along the ground like the Terminator at the end of The Terminator. Only two of his legs worked, and he looked pissed. I pulled my magazine out its sheath, and proceeded to pummel the half dead wasp. He had no chance. I was left with a highly dead wasp on my back-porch, his stinger halfway out. Not wanting to touch him, I used my magazine like a putter to get him to the nearest patch of land that would not have any foot traffic.

Once I succeeded, I was able to settle into my chair, and start enjoying my book.

About ten minutes later, two additional wasps buzzed my head. I freaked out and immediately grabbed for my sword, err, magazine, but by the time I was in my Gladiator position, they were twenty feet away. They kept buzzing around, a safe distance from me, and I went back to reading, keeping one eye on them. Soon, there was no activity, but I kept alert.

Then, one of the wasps returned, and landed on the porch about two feet from me. And he brought me a present. Secured in his arms was the wasp that I had killed, and putted into the dirt. For a second it looked like the second wasp was trying to slap his dead brethren back to life, but he quickly gave up, flew away and left the dead wasp lying on the ground, two feet from my bare feet.

His threat could not have been more subtle had he left a horse's head in my bed. I fled back to the safety of my bunker.

Warped Tour

You say this ain't the end to me
Fall down, pull the rug under me
Feels like I'm falling but I tell you
I'm not going down

      Zebrahead--Over The Edge

Last weekend I went to the Warped Tour. If you do not know what the Warped Tour is, then shame on you. Basically, it is a bunch of bands touring in a festival-like atmosphere. I dropped $35 of EagleMan's hard earned money to buy myself a ticket to see one band. One of my favorite bands has decided to abstain from touring in any city remotely close to where I am, and therefore, I had to see them at Warped Tour.

Warped Tour is filled with 30 minute sets of many semi-popular bands. The good bands take up 3 stages, while all the crappy bands fill up the remaining 5. I was interested in seeing only one band, but to fill time between my arrival, the best band of all-time, and my departure, I checked out some other acts. Thursday was great, as was Less Than Jake. Armor For Sleep was a bit of a disappointment, as they play a lot of mellow songs and it did not translate well into a parking lot stage. NOFX sucked. I hate them. Unfortunately, I missed The Academy Is . . ., but at least I saw Motion City Soundtrack (oh, wait, I left halfway through their set to get a beer). Senses Fail looked pretty damn good from a mile away though.

But my glorious savior, beer, was hard to come by that day. Not only was it 100 degrees outside, but a large beer cost me $7.50. Motherfucking highway robbery. Who the hell would pay that for a beer? I mean other than an unabashed alcoholic like myself? Yeah, so I drank a few. Of course, they did not start selling until 2 p.m., and I was jonesing for a beer around 12:30 (which incidentally was a little after we arrived).

I was smart though, I brought in an unopened bottle of water (if opened it would be confiscated upon entry). I was able to refill this bottle several times ($3.75 for a bottle of water? Fuck You!), and alternate beer and water so I would not pass out from dehydration.

But the entire day was going through the motions until Zebrahead took the stage at 5:15. I saved my energy for this performance. For all the others I hung back, tapping my toes like a 90 year old at a jazz bar. But when Zebrahead took the stage, I went off. They are one of my favorite bands, and it has been two years since I last saw them. Last time, I was 23, still a respectable age for going fucking nuts at a concert, but now I am 25, and a future lawyer, one day to be a pillar of the community.

Once they hit the first chord of Playmate of the Year, I forgot all that shit. I went nuts. Jumping around, helping kids get up to crowd surf, shit I was even a mosh pit for a couple seconds.

It was my release. Better than ejaculation. Everybody experiences music a different way, and when you are two yards from the band, surrounded by people you have never met, but know you share a sacred common interest, you can act how you want. You let the music dictate what you do, and the music compels each person differently. If you want to jump, then by all means, jump. If you want to throw horns in the air and bob your head, go forth. If spinning around in circles is your bag, then do it, no one cares. We are all here for the same reason.

But at the same time, we are all lemmings. If you watched the World Cup like I did, because you have nothing better to do (like work), you would see each country had cheers, long exhaustive cheers. In the US, our cheers are things like "Go, Go, Go!" or "*clap* *clap* *CLAP*" We suck at cheers. We need a Jumbotron or organist to tell us what to do.

The same is true with bands. Sometimes they feel the need to tell us when and how to clap, what lyrics to recite, or what actions to take. Personally, I feel that is insulting. The band is telling us that we are too stupid to know how to react to the music they play. And for the most part, they are right. Americans are stupid. But I transcend those people, and refuse to play along. I never follow along with the Simon Says that the band espouses.

Unless Zebrahead is on the stage. They could tell me to commit mass murder, and I would have to think twice before deciding against it. So when the lead singer for Zebrahead called out for a circle pit during their second-to-last song, I gleefully complied. A circle pit is basically the audience running around in a circle. It seems pretty stupid, and it is, but when the band tells you to do it, you think it is the best idea since DC*.

So they launched into their song, and I started running. I was pretty drunk at this point, despite the oppressive heat, and soon learned that a bunch of people running in a circle was a death trap. Some people ran too slow, some too fast, and I bit it hard because I could not find the happy medium. I tripped and fell not once, not twice, but thrice (they did not play (Thrice is a band)). Yeah, I kept going even though I knew it was a death trap. I was feeling the music, or something like that. Maybe I was just shithoused. I ripped my pants and ripped my knee open. The wound proceeded to bleed through the next song, and ten minutes afterwards before I noticed it. By the time I noticed, my pants were drenched in blood.

I felt so cool. I had a battle wound. A Zebrahead battle wound.

I am going to wear the blood soaked, ripped pants on the first day of classes. Everyone is going to ask me what the hell happened, and I am going to say, "Never ever fucking sue Wal-Mart. Those guys play for keeps."

*Yes, Direct Current did not work out in the end. An Edison failure, but when it was introduced it was the main ideal. It took a couple of years for AC to take over, but at first people thought DC was the greatest thing ever. Then they were introduced to AC.

A Normal Thursday Part 2

Part 1

It is a little harsh to describe her as the GOTW. EagleMan just ended a long relationship, and is getting back into the dating scene (as I described before). He is a romantic at heart, and falls pretty quickly. This was no exception. GOTW was an affable enough girl, more outgoing than the last one, but she fell pretty hard too. He had been seeing this girl for about a week, and at one point during the ball game, while EagleMan was away, she asked me what I thought she should do for his birthday. His birthday was over two months away. I hemmed and hawed as much as I could, but I was pretty uncomfortable, even though I knew he liked her. However, in a moment, I was about to be much more uncomfortable.

With GOTW talking to the older woman, I took my turn to bowl, focusing on not falling down. Throwing it down the right arrow was secondary. This scene would repeat itself 70 more times (I got no strikes that night). I was getting a little buzzed. I am not a fan of Budweiser. I managed to avoid the gutter with both rolls, and returned to the table, seeing the older woman putting on shoes.

"This is my mother," GOTW cheerily slurred. Her fucking mother? After a week? Holy hell. EagleMan did not look shocked, so he must have known that this coming. He neglected to give me a heads up. I have enough trouble interacting in social situations with my best friends, and now, out of the blue, the GOTW's mother shows up. The least I could have gotten was a heads up from EagleMan. I am very regimented, routine oriented, and I do not like things happening unexpectedly. Unless I am hammered. I was not there yet.

I quickly excused myself to go get another beer. Head still spinning, I walked up to the bar. However, I had enough sense to see if lovely honey was still around, but alas, she was gone. "Bud?" the bartender asked. "Uhmm, no, Bud Light actually." A look of confusion briefly wafted across the bartender's face, then dissipated. "I knew there was someone that ordered Bud Light's on Thursdays. Why did you let me give you a Bud last time?" Because I am a sadist. I grabbed my beer and returned to the table.

"You know, I setup a tab, just put your beers on that," GOTW's mother greeted me. Oh great, now I have her offering to pay for my bad habits. Could this get any worse?

"You know mom, he is in law school," GOTW said. "You should check out environmental law," the mother rapidly replied.

It just got worse. Now I am bowling with a hippie. "It is interesting, but I think I am going to have make more than $30,000 a year to pay off my hundred grand in student loans." "Well just think about it." Sure, no problem, I will think about it. When I get rejected by the public defenders office.

I was able to maintain a modicum of socialability with the GOTW and her mother. EagleMan is a social fiend. He can talk to anyone, anywhere, about anything. He was having no such problems. But, then GOTW and the mother got up for another round, and EagleMan turns to me and says, "I have been talking to the Ex."

And I am down for the count.

I am not Superman. Now I have to talk to the GOTW and her mother, while knowing that EagleMan has been talking to his Ex, and wants to get back together with her. I was not built to deal with such things. It of course is complicated by the fact that I liked GOTW more after a week than I ever like the Ex after a year. And I am not receptive to meeting new people.

Whatever, I decided to put all this shit out of my mind and focus on bowling and drinking. No more talking for me. I really don't have anything interesting to say anyway (but plenty of interesting things to write, I hope). This caused a chorus of "What's wrong?" from the GOTW. I replied that I was fine, as I do have a tendency to seriously introvert myself. I eventually relaxed (read: was drunk) around 11, and was able to be my slightly sociable self for the rest of the night. The beer flowed freely, in and out, and when the alley closed at midnight, my pump had been primed enough that I could have bowled for another three hours. Unfortunately, it was time to go home.

EagleMan dropped me off at my place at 12:30. At this point, I was faced with two decisions, go to bed or drink a beer and check my e-mail. My alarm clock was poised to go off in four and half hours, and I had to be out of bed in five and half. But going to bed meant that my next conscious thought would be the realization that I had to go to work for 12 hours. I turned on the computer and cracked a beer.

For the next three hours I was lost in the world of cyberspace and alcohol. I kept drinking, proclaiming each beer to be my last, and always finding a new webpage to look at, where I would be halfway through reading an article when my beer went empty, causing me to go grab another. Or, finding that I had to write some irrelevant comment on someone's blog. This could have gone on in perpetuity, but by the time 3:30 am rolled around, I realized that I was fucked.

I am not exactly sure what I did in those three hours on the worldwide web. I know I did a couple stupid things, but I do not think I spent any money, which is always good. Regardless, I absolve myself of responsibility for anything I did. I was in another world. A world fueled by hatred of work, alcohol, and the knowledge that I am who I am. I was able to break my bond with that hell, and reconnect with reality, and stagger to bed and pass out. An hour and a half before my alarm would start going off.

The sounds of staticky country music suddenly filled my ears. I was shocked awake, ripped from my drunken slumber. I looked at the clock. 30 past the hour. Fuck. It takes about 25 minutes to get to work. I hauled myself out of bed. Thankfully, in my drunken stupor I had the sense to pass out fully clothed, so all I had to do was grab all the change in my ashtray (vending machine lunch), and head out the door. Yes, I was still a little (a lot) drunk. I do not advocate drunk driving, and personally have only done it a couple times (and not in a long, long time), but at this time of the morning, with it being the only way for me to get to work, the rules are bent. In short, I was fine to drive. I had to be.

I turned on the car, and was immediately shocked by the radio. I expected Mike & Mike, the morning drive show on ESPNRadio, to come blaring through the speakers. But I heard two guys I never heard. Fuck it, I am drunk and I have to get work. I put the car in gear, and headed out. About five minutes into the drive, the two dumbfucks on the radio mentioned that they were filling in for Mike & Mike. Thank God, I thought, I have not gone crazy. But, five minutes later I looked at the clock.

5:45. The motherfucking clock said 5:45. I was a fucking hour early. Fuck. The only thing I could think was Fuck. I turned around and came home, made a lunch, and went back to bed. And woke up at 6:35. For the second time that day, I hauled my drunk ass out of bed, and left home. I started my car again, and for the second time that day, heard two guys I had never heard before. What the fuck is going on. The local affiliate had pulled the national fill-ins and put in some local fill ins. I figured this out later, but I was horribly confused at the time. On the second drive to work I checked the clock every ten seconds to reassure myself that I was leaving when I was supposed to. I safely got to work at 7 am and began my 12 hour workday.

That is my life. Want to trade?

A Normal Thursday Part 1

I have already mentioned in this space that my summer job decided to make overtime mandatory. You can explore my entries to see the exact specs of my job (except for what I do of course). The company's idea of mandatory overtime is to come in for an entire extra 12 hour shift. This particular week, my normal schedule was to be off on Thursday and Friday, and work Saturday, Sunday and Monday. With mandatory OT in effect, I was forced to work on Friday. This did not please me. This did not please me at all.

Thursday became my favorite day of the week during Undergrad. Going out on a Thursday was infinitely better than going out on the weekend for several reasons. First, Freshman do not learn until Sophomore year that you can get away with going out on Thursdays. They do it occasionally, but they are still naive and do not want to make a habit of it. Thus, the 18+ bars are not packed with a bunch of idiots, sober idiots. Secondly, once you turn 21 you reach the point where you know where you stand. By this I mean you know how much effort and how many classes you have to attend to get the grade you want. At this point, the guys with the 2.0 GPA know that there is not much they can do to improve it, so they just want to have a good time. These are the guys you want to hang out with. They fucking know how to party, and when you go out with them, you never know where the hell you are going to end up.

However, major reason that Thursday became my favorite day of the week is because I could go out. At this time, I had no idea that I would end up going to Law School. This was before the downfall of Enron and Arthur Anderson, and I had every confidence in myself and society, that I could half A's and half B's and get a job as an auditor with one of the Big Five. I had no need to go to class on Friday, and even if I could haul my usually still drunk ass out of bed, all I had to do was take some notes. Easy Peasy, Japanesey.

I should mention, that I tried to change myself. After suffering through the worst grades of my life Sophomore year, I decided I had to curb the partying during the week. My feeble minded solution to this was to schedule a class that met only on Wednesdays and Fridays at 8 a.m., and lasted two hours. The rationale was, it only meets twice per week, so I have to go on Fridays, so I cannot go out on Thursdays. It was a good plan, for about a week. The lure of the best night to go out was too much for me. Halfway through the semester I had used up my six absence allowance. Yet, I continued to go out on Thursdays, I just tried to make sure that when the bars closed at 2 a.m., I went home. It worked, I got a B, probably because of the pounding headaches while trying to take notes. For two fucking hours.

This summer, Thursday still holds a special place in my heart. I bowl on Thursdays (you cannot beat dollar games and $3 Bud Lights). This particular Thursday contained a twist. Before going to the bowling alley, my friend (this guy really needs a nickname. From now on, I dub he EagleMan (and if you live in Chicago, it is ten times funnier)), his girl of the week, and I went to see the local minor league baseball team.

As you know, I love my baseball. As you know, I love my beer. Combining the two, well that is my Field of Dreams. However, the evil specter of Friday work was the thunderstorm on my field. I took it easy. I was sober enough to realize that I would be getting home three hours after my bedtime. I had to take it easy. I had maybe four beers during the game, a new record. It should have been five, which would have tied the old record, but that was not to be.

After the top of the eighth, I went to the concession stand to pick up two beers for the last inning and a half. The transaction was completed without a hitch, and when I returned to my seat, I handed one of the beers to the girl of the week, saying, "Hey, I bought you a beer." Up to this point, she had not had one beer. In fact, the two other times I saw her, she did not drink. In my head, I was making a joke. She, however, readily accepted the beer, and took a sip. Ahh, well, it's not like I needed it anyway. After she finished half the beer, it became apparent that she does not drink too often. Half a beer, and she was slurring her words. Whoops. EagleMan is my full time designated driver, he does not drink at all, for the poor guy is allergic to wheat and such things. Drinking may kill him. It actually almost killed him. He used to drink more than me, then one day, Bam!, his throat swells up and he cannot drink anymore. But, he is a good guy, and is more than happy (well, maybe not happy, willing is a better word) to put up with my drunkass. I was not sure if he was willing to put up with his new girl's drunk ass though.

The Mudville 9 lost that day, but our spirits were high as we headed off to a night of bowling. Dollar bowling starts at 9 p.m., and we arrived at 9:30. Plenty of time. After picking up my shoes, I headed to the bar. The bartender knows me, in the customer sense of the phrase. She looked at me, and said, "Bud?" I had been staring at a lovely honey across the bar, and that snapped me back to attention. "Uhh, Yeah," I replied, and went back to my ogling.

Then, the lovely honey calls out to me, "You went to [Undergrad]?" For a second, I was horribly confused. I have no idea who this is, should I know who she is? I am terrible with faces. Even worse with faces when I am thirsty. Then I realized I was wearing a hat with my Undergrad's name emblazoned upon it. "Yeah," I said. I am smoother than sandpaper. "I graduated two years ago, did you go there?" I asked. "Yeah, but I just graduated," she replied. "That's cool." No, I am smoother than silk. The bartender suddenly appeared, blocking my line of sight to the lovely honey. The lovely honey was there with a bunch of guys, so I probably had no shot with her, and I was thirsty and wanted to bowl, so I took my beer and skedaddled. It's ok. You can tell me, I know. I am a social retard.

I returned to my lane, and put on my shoes. I took a sip of my beer. Immediately, I knew something was wrong. Fuck. It was a Budweiser, not a Bud Light. That bitch of a bartender fucked up my order. No wait, I fucked up my order, thinking with the wrong head, and not paying attention to what was going on around me. Whatever, it is time to fucking bowl.

The girl of the week sat down, beer in hand, and we began to bowl. We were in the fifth frame when the GOTW jumped out of her seat like she had been shocked with a cattle prod, and ran up to an older woman who had just entered the alley. EagleMan was bowling, leaving me to think to myself, who the fuck is that?

[Part 2 Tomorrow]

Overtime? Hell No!

For the first time since my first job (golf caddie, approx. 11 years ago), I have refused to work extra hours at my job (I am NOT working a legal job. If I were, things would be different). Being a caddie sucked, but since then, my eye has been on the prize. Even if it was working an extra hour a week for seven bucks, over the course of a year, it added up to $364. That is some nice bank (course nowadays, it does not cover the bills for a month, but I digress). Working an extra hour here and there was easy for me to rationalize. I was always up for more work. In truth, I do not mind working, after all, at least I am being productive. What else am I going to do with that hour? Watch TV, drink some beer, and rub one out? Sure that is all well and good, but I would rather make some money.

So today, when my boss came and asked me if I could stay late, I refused, without hesitation. Then, my other boss came by and asked me again, and my reply was a terse, "Nah." Thankfully, none of my other six bosses came by to ask, I may have given in, just to get them off my back (I got the damn memo). Granted, refusing to work OT is one of the perks of being hourly, but why did I refuse now, when I never did in the last 10 years? The answer is simple.

Law School.

(Bet you saw that one coming.) I have finally reached a point in my life where I have a modicum of direction, whether or not I want to be a lawyer or not, the needle is still pointed in that direction. Because of this, my future is beginning to take shape. My psychic powers show me forty-five years of 80-90 hour work weeks, partly because I want to succeed, partly because I am perfectionist, and partly because I cannot trust others, and mostly because that is what it takes to make Partner, and once you make Partner, well, that is not the time to start slacking off. Granted, I may not get a job at a prestigious firm, but any lawyer who has clients is on call 24/7. Whether you are a criminal defense attorney showing up on a Saturday for an arraignment, or a divorce attorney being called up because the wife took the dog, or a regular run of the mill attorney being called up at 9 p.m. by a small local business because they have a big order to fill by 8 a.m. the next morning, and their supplier has not yet shipped the boxes (yeah, they call the lawyer last), there really is no freedom from the oppression of the job. Maybe that is why Lady Justice's scales are permanently out of balance.

Is this the life I want? Maybe, probably, and because of this, forget working overtime. In the past, it was really all about the money. Today, it is about the summer of [Lawschoolrules]. The Summer of [Lawschoolrules]!! Fuck if I am going to bust my ass when I have the rest of my life for that shit.

Or maybe it was because Game Five of the Stanley Cup final was tonight. The damn Oilers won in Overtime.

Drunken Fun

I went down to the southside tonight to take in a Sox game. They put up a good fight, down by eight heading into the bottom of the Ninth, and proceeded to score six runs. Not quite enough, but still exciting. They almost came back.

However, the fun really started after I got back to mny Best Friends house, who took me to the game. He is just getting out of a long term relationship, and is looking for something different, so he posted a profile on Match.com. anyway, I was at his place, and he got an e-mail from some girl on the site. While he was making himself some ribs, I decided to to compose a reply to the e-mail that was sent. He decided not to use it, but laughed several times while he read it, so I will now share it with you.

Hey, thanks for the response. Do not worry about the smoking though, as my philosophy in life is smoke them if you got them. However, I do understand that your career choice might frown upon smoking. After all, the last time that I went to get a massage, I dropped fifty bucks for the happy ending and it was totally ruined by her skanky breath. But hell, at least she swallowed. Hopefully you will do the same.

I love going to concerts. Two years ago, I had my own PR by going to 34 shows. It was ubeleivable. I cannot hear shit anymore, which will be nice since I will not have to hear you bable on about some stupid ass shit, but concerts are still loud enough that I can still hear the bass line! So as long as you are not looking to go see Yo Yo Ma, I think we could have a good time. As luck would have it, I have an extra ticket to Warped Tour on July 30th. Maybe you could come with us. It would be a rocking good time. I dont drink, so I can keep my asshole friends' hands off of you. However, after Zebrahead takes the stage, we will all probably be so ramped up that we will gang bang you in the Port-A-Potty.

And as for my tatoos, they defy description. I actually had my pubes removed by means of a laser, and I have a very nice message tatooed above my woman pleaser. Of course, I would be happy to show this to you, and my other 11 tatoos, but only after you show me your strategically placed tatoo, and are down on your knees. If you are a more conservative girl, and do not want to jump right in, I would be happy to show you my perice nipples, so long as I get to play with your nipples for five minutes first.

Thanks for sending me an e-mail. I hope to hear from you soon.

Bada-Bing, Bada-Boom--

[My Buddy's Name]