What's the rumpus?

Sidebar after work with Rashid. JB joined, as did Joey K, and we rattled about football, which was tons o' fun despite what you might think, snob. We also talked about women, and my odd luck these days. I was drinking scotch - my new fave, Johnny Walker Black.

Now playing at the Nunnery: MC 900 foot Jesus. Yeah, that's right, MC 900 foot Jesus. What? Picture the Beastie Boys enjoying an aperitif with Milton Berle in LL Cool J's unfinished annex. Back in like '91.

Apparently Heath Ledger died today. I've gotten several messages about it tonight. I'm only vaguely aware of who he is, but... god bless. We'll all be pushing up daisies soon enough. Not much time left friends. Memento mori.

And Jennifer's going to drop my jacket by tomorrow. I'm having it let out a bit. Not about the waist, mind you. I'm actually pretty trim these days. In fact, I don't think I've been in this much shape since I was like eight years old, give or take. So no, I'm having the sleeves let out a little. It didn't hang quite right. These things matter.

So I'm here at the Nunnery, drinking the House scotch, a 15-year old Pinch blend. Better than the paint they sell at Sidebar.

I was told by some off-duty bartender tonight, Mandy something or other, who asked to be introduced to me, that I bear some resemblance to tom Hanks. Strange. I'd never heard that before. You don't think I look like Tom Hanks, do you? I mean... Tom Hanks? The motherfucker from Toy Story?

So yeah, I yelled at her I guess. And I may have gotten a little carried away, or you know, whatever, I admit. But I'm Irish, and roses don't grow on stocks of clover, so whatever, she fucking had it coming. My family tree is like a willow, weeping all the way to the goddamn ground under the weight of surnames like Kelly, O'Neill, and O'Connor. I can't help it. It's in my genes. Sue me.