A Man, A Plan, A Canal: Panama

THE OTHER DAY we all celebrated STANLEY (of the not-in-any-way infamous WRY & STANLEY)'s 24th birthday, with wine and food and friends and a lot of standing around talking and laughing and going outside to smoke and cheese eating and a small expensive pizza and much talk of the benefits of a good French Press coffee maker. It was swell. For the evening, about sixty of us went to see SHARON JONES & THE DAP KINGS (webpage of which I would link were I the type of person who knew how to do that) and the SATELLITE BALLROOM (again, same link thing), where our friend BETH (yes, again) pretends to work but really just sits in her office brainstorming creative ways to woo me. The concert was wonderful. I drank a lot.

Working at the Ballroom, picking up empty bottles and stuff, was an EX-GIRLFRIEND (no doubt I would link something funny here if somebody were to teach me this) of mine who I had not seen in a few months and who, if she ever reads this, will decide it is one more reason (of many) to hate me. Anyway, it was good when I saw her and we danced a bit and talked a little and everything was fine and cordial yet still intimate in a way that only people who have spent a lot of time together can be, even after not seeing each other for many months, even when they can't decide if they should hate each other.

So everything was fine and I left the concert and went home and hung out, not wanting to sleep because of the innate funk reverberations courtesy of THE DAP KINGS, and I decided, you know what, fuck it, I think I will call EX-GIRLFRIEND and tell her that it was really nice to see her, and that I am sincerely glad she seems to be doing well. So I did that. But she didn't pick up so I left a message. Then I hung up and ever since I have realize that that was the stupidest thing I have done in a long time.