Your cocktail sir,

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2002-08-28 - 2:29 p.m.

Iím not on top of my game today. I went to a bar with my good friend Hector. 12 pints of Guinness and a pack of Marlboros later the realization that I should probably slow down kind of sunk in. Itís not like Iím 16 anymore. Iím old. And canít call in sick the next day. But my Amigo Diablo convinced me to have a cigar to cap our evening. And of course I needed a double Crown to go with it. Iím not a barbarian. Even while intoxicated. Boorish, probably.

I hate being drunk. It makes me passionate and intense. Which is why I think I like to smoke so much. My important comments seem much more profound when punctuated by a glowing death stick. Plus it gives me something to do when Iím ignoring the other persons comments and point of view, nodding my head or lighting a new one while I outline my speech in my head. Itís a sad thing. Especially discussing such diverse topics as Lipstick Lesbianism, Marin Countyís higher than average rate of breast cancer, and Trading Spaces. The three are all oddly related in a way that only a punch drunk bastard with a smoking fetish can make sense of. Link the chain like 6 degrees of Kevin Bacon. The strangest part of the evening was my pool game. When I tried to play, I sucked. But when I was making a shot quickly, I had mad skillz. I am not a very good pool player. Yet last night I could sink my shots skillfully at the oddest times. Like there is a pool playing zone that I could, at rare moments tap into and use. A primal instinct and skill that surfaced when I put all thoughts of pool out of my mind, and instead concentrated on why Laurie put French Country in a room when the girl totally wanted Caribbean Kitsch. Although that was funny because the team didnít do their homework. Because they were lazy and then tried to get out of it by playing stupid. So my Amigo Diablo made sure I got home all right, and enjoyed himself immensely as I tried to make coffee in a highly drunken state. GD Percolator. And GD Grinder. And GD Starbucks for not being open at 11:30 at night when I want a cup of coffee. Iím all about blame sometimes. I ended up giving him a Mocha Frappacino I had in the fridge and kicking his ass out. I managed to drink some water and then passed out in my clothes on the couch.

Good Times.

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