Monday, August 17, 2009

No, Luke... I am your flower... Er... Father.

I think that there’s a difference between binge drinking and drinking on a typical Saturday night and for me that would be intent. It’s pretty simple, I know. And, as I’m sure you’ve all heard, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I think that’s a lie and a bold miscategorization [that’s seven syllables right there] but I’ll get to that some other time.

In my never ending quest to… umm… do something, I end up at the bar on a relatively regular basis. I like beer and I’m Irish. What do you expect? I’m not going to light the world on fire with how charming I can be with parlor tricks and certainly the phrase “not a dry seat in the house” rarely applies to my hitting-on ability. Again, I like beer and I’m Irish. I’m there to have a good time and, sure, if some gorgeous young lassie magically falls in love with my beard (one woman in particular on Saturday night called it “sexy”) then all the better. All the best. Whatever. I don’t have flat-ironed hair and I knew that at the end of the evening (Saturday night, for example) when Baron VonDouchenstein was settling up his bar tab and getting ready to have a no-strings attached hook up with Blondie O’Sexuallytransmitteddisease, I was walking out the door to go clean up flowers from a wedding with a couple of gay dudes… this being after I had worked in a flower shoppe for seven hours earlier in the day. I couldn’t make that up if I tried. But that’s the life that I’ve chosen. Besides, fifty bucks for cleaning up a wedding is fifty bucks.

I realize that most of the latter portion of that paragraph made me sound gay. I’m not. I’m just bad with hittin’ on chicks at the bar.

So anyway, as I was leaving 3 Crow on Saturday night to go clean up flowers from said wedding, I received several swift kicks to the legs under the table from Robbie. He said I needed “encouragement” or something. I don’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention. At any rate, I finished my last bit of courage juice for the evening (it was number severalth, by the by) and walked out to the back porch to feebly and flusteredly (fuck you, red squiggly line, it is too a word) do my deed. No, I wasn’t going to pee on a table or anything like that. I’m not that kind of drinker. I’m the kind that plays air guitar solos to Journey songs and falls of the bar stool. Simultaneously. It’s called “talent” and I’d like to think that I’ve got some. God made me funny-looking so He made up for it by making me funny. I made my way up to the top section of the back porch and did what I do.

“What is that?” you might ask. I made an ass out of myself. Not quite as big of an ass I made out of myself when I yelled the F-bomb very loudly at the Sounds game earlier that evening. I didn’t corrupt any youth. A gaggle (that’s what a group of kids is called, right?) turned themselves around with mouths agape at my blue language. We all know they had heard the word before otherwise they wouldn’t have been so offended by it. See how I reasoned that one out? That’s just another example of my talent.

Any attempts for making a quick but lasting impression were, as usual, feeble. I’m not lacking in confidence just ability. When 22’s [Robbie and I have a code language by the way] face lit up with text message receipt after text message receipt from her yet-to-arrive-but-promised-he-was-on-his-way date for that night, I knew my chances were nil. I didn’t care, though, because I had that wedding to go to and I’m really quite good at making dramatic entrances and exits. I’m like Darth Vader in a way… if he delivered flowers occasionally.

So, guard down and significant amount of talent juice still in the system, I turned my attention to making nice for the next 15 minutes with everyone who wasn’t anyone for the reason that I was there.

What? That’s right… I started hitting on other chicks, unbeknownst to me at the time. Women like to be called “chicks” right? Turns out that I’m at my best when I don’t care. Or, so I’d like to think.

After striking up a conversation with another chick [there’s that word again] at the table, and giving her a ten minute window of my life and her telling me that my beard was “sexy” (see?) we decided that Wednesday night would be a good night to get food. Actually, I said it and said that she didn’t have a choice. Seemed to work out. I wonder when she’s going to tell me that she has a boyfriend. Probably after I pay for her burrito. In a sick twist of something-or-other, burrito lady also happens to be a hot lady nurse. Not the one from my “Love in an Elevator” series but a different one altogether. I’ll update on Thursday with the exciting conclusion even though we all know how it’s going to end already. Just like Star Wars Episode 3: Revenge of the Sith. That’s two Darth Vader references in one blog. Ladies, eat your heart out.

So I went and cleaned up a wedding. And being the stellar guy that I am, I told a friend that I would bring her some flowers that I was going to swipe that were leftover from said wedding. I dropped them off on her porch in west Nashville at 130 in the a.m. because she was still out for the night.

If you’re sitting there reading this blog (and I know you are because I hear it all the time, stalkers), you like burritos and beards and guys that will drop off stolen flowers for you on your front porch while you’re out having a good time somewhere else, then for the love of God, get me. Desperation is an ugly cologne but it’s better than smelling like hookers.

And all that without a single picture. See? Talent.

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