Nobody in Atlanta has ever heard of Van Morrison.

12:36 am
Winthrop

Who's here? Josh and Vlindinhauer and me. And, earlier, Vlindinhauer's wife, M. A well-documented evening.

Currently under discussion: The tragic, violent accident which would occur if we were to try to drive home tonight, back to the South Shore. There are many points of agreement. One of which is that the accident would involve a family of five, all of whom would be killed on impact. It was decided that the oldest boy in the family would be some sort of savant. His future would have brought him close to a cure for a major disease. And the middle daughter is the junior high slut.

I woke up here yesterday morning. Here's what the day looked like.



This is what I looked like.




Listening earlier to a bootleg of Pink Floyd from 1970. A very good night for the lads.

Listening now to Marvin Gaye. Mercy Mercy Me. Everyone else is asleep now, but my new fucking awesome laptop is serenading me with What's Going On.

I told the waitress at that Irish place earlier, Clery's, that she was the worst waitress I've ever had. Swear to god. You'd think she would be insulted, or put off by this. But she seemed to like it. Weirdo.

The more of a jerk I am to women, the more they can't stop purring at me. Freaks.

A quick example. A woman and a boy came over and sat at our couch the other night, mine and Josh's. It was Christmas night and we were at some place, just talking and catching up. As this woman and boy approached our couch, I loudly told Josh to 'get rid of them'. They both heard me, of course, and within one minute she was purring at me. How dumb is that?

She asked me if she could show me her breasts. She even offered me fellatio if I let her show me her breasts. You believe that? Christmas night. I told her 'That doesn't sound like a very good deal to me'. Of course, that just made her purr all the more, and she showed me her breasts anyway. Tramp.

But right now I'm listening to Van Morrison. It's about 1:20 am. Veedon Fleece. Linden Arden Stole the Highlights.

Nobody in Atlanta, the city I currently live in, has ever heard of Van Morrison. I don't know what fills the place in them that Van Morrison occupies in me, but I'm not too worried about it right now. I've been listening to Van Morrison a lot recently.

Come Here, My Love is playing. It is so fucking beautiful. I can't stand it. Beautiful the way Song to the Siren is beautiful, or Carry Me, Ohio. Or maybe Martha, My Dear, if you squint a little.