Sep. 13th, 2010 10:53 am
Glue factory on line 1
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
muckefuckI'm sitting at home today because I'm a dumbass. My first dumbass decision was that binge drinking at German Fest was a good idea, and pretty much everything else follows from there.
The rain Saturday morning dampened the GWO's enthusiasm for the Lakewood-Balmoral massive cooperative yard sale, so I frittered away the morning until it was time for the Great Book Giveaway at Spookyfruit Manor. There I linked up with my car-enabled younger brother and we sped down to Lawrence just in time to see the empty floats departing. Nuphy met us at the gate and we were soon sharing litre plastic steins of beer.
So far, so good. But Nuphy had to take off for the free opera concert in Millennium Park and![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bunj left not long at meeting the Scoutmaster. (Sorry, Bunji, should've given you some heads-up about the casual racism.) Now, as I've noted before, he's not the best influence on my drinking habits. In fact, the only time I was ever puking drunk was due to going out and doing karaoke with him. That at least did result in the "no-Jäger" rule, but its one puny defence against an arsenal of threats.
I convinced him to take a break from the festivities so I could sit for a bit and check out the revamped Delicatessen Meyer. (Now being run by Gene's Sausage Shop.) But soon enough we were back hefting another pair--though not without a fortifying foundation of sausage and sauerkraut first. A couple standing at the same Stehtisch were interested in my Leberkäse, so I struck up a conversation and found out that they were here for a reunion of students who were in Paderborn at the same time that I was in Freiburg im Breisgau.
Our attempts to lure Coleman to us failed, so we agreed to meet him in Boystown. He suggested Buck's patio, but the Scoutmaster dragged us to Little Jim's, where he could drink a bit more cheaply. As I was downing a manhattan with a Long Guylander, I got text from Tuppers that everything was tote Hose at Mahoney's, the "Irish" pub owned by a Geordie pal. (Apparently the Geordie has relocated to San Diego and the warmth of his charm is greatly missed.) "I'm coming to you," he said--just before my phone died.
So I made my excuses--he can't abide Coleman--and met him on the street. His choice was Tequila's, a sports bar adjoining Roscoes, and I had another manhattan on the fabulous patio. I kept singing along to the retro mix on the sound system, which got us talking about dancing. So I suggested the Wild Pug, where I have successfully gone and cut a rug in the recent past.
When we got there, all the action was behind the bar in the form of two superenergetic young tenders who were getting freaky to the dance pop. Now I had had the sense to stop drinking at this point, but my buzz was not going anywhere. So when Tuppers admired the shirtless young sweetie's propulsive pogoing, it seemed like a great idea to say, "Oh, I can do that!" and treat him to a demonstration.
There are plenty more embarrassing ways to injure yourself in a bar than by dancing, but it still doesn't do much for one's dignity to admit that you can't walk because of a pogoing accident. I mean, I guess an unsuccessful attempt to do the sprinkler would be worse, but not really by much. I covered well at the time. As soon as I came down on the side of my foot, I knew something had gone horribly wrong, but I managed to slink back to the barstool without tipping anyone off.
But there was no hiding anything the next evening when he came over for dinner to find me hopping about on one foot.monshu has been quite supportive, considering he confesses to not having much sympathy given the circumstances under which the injury occurred. If I needed proof of how feeble I've become in my old age, I have it now, as I sit hear waiting for my PCP to call me back with information on obtaining crutches.
The rain Saturday morning dampened the GWO's enthusiasm for the Lakewood-Balmoral massive cooperative yard sale, so I frittered away the morning until it was time for the Great Book Giveaway at Spookyfruit Manor. There I linked up with my car-enabled younger brother and we sped down to Lawrence just in time to see the empty floats departing. Nuphy met us at the gate and we were soon sharing litre plastic steins of beer.
So far, so good. But Nuphy had to take off for the free opera concert in Millennium Park and
bunj left not long at meeting the Scoutmaster. (Sorry, Bunji, should've given you some heads-up about the casual racism.) Now, as I've noted before, he's not the best influence on my drinking habits. In fact, the only time I was ever puking drunk was due to going out and doing karaoke with him. That at least did result in the "no-Jäger" rule, but its one puny defence against an arsenal of threats.I convinced him to take a break from the festivities so I could sit for a bit and check out the revamped Delicatessen Meyer. (Now being run by Gene's Sausage Shop.) But soon enough we were back hefting another pair--though not without a fortifying foundation of sausage and sauerkraut first. A couple standing at the same Stehtisch were interested in my Leberkäse, so I struck up a conversation and found out that they were here for a reunion of students who were in Paderborn at the same time that I was in Freiburg im Breisgau.
Our attempts to lure Coleman to us failed, so we agreed to meet him in Boystown. He suggested Buck's patio, but the Scoutmaster dragged us to Little Jim's, where he could drink a bit more cheaply. As I was downing a manhattan with a Long Guylander, I got text from Tuppers that everything was tote Hose at Mahoney's, the "Irish" pub owned by a Geordie pal. (Apparently the Geordie has relocated to San Diego and the warmth of his charm is greatly missed.) "I'm coming to you," he said--just before my phone died.
So I made my excuses--he can't abide Coleman--and met him on the street. His choice was Tequila's, a sports bar adjoining Roscoes, and I had another manhattan on the fabulous patio. I kept singing along to the retro mix on the sound system, which got us talking about dancing. So I suggested the Wild Pug, where I have successfully gone and cut a rug in the recent past.
When we got there, all the action was behind the bar in the form of two superenergetic young tenders who were getting freaky to the dance pop. Now I had had the sense to stop drinking at this point, but my buzz was not going anywhere. So when Tuppers admired the shirtless young sweetie's propulsive pogoing, it seemed like a great idea to say, "Oh, I can do that!" and treat him to a demonstration.
There are plenty more embarrassing ways to injure yourself in a bar than by dancing, but it still doesn't do much for one's dignity to admit that you can't walk because of a pogoing accident. I mean, I guess an unsuccessful attempt to do the sprinkler would be worse, but not really by much. I covered well at the time. As soon as I came down on the side of my foot, I knew something had gone horribly wrong, but I managed to slink back to the barstool without tipping anyone off.
But there was no hiding anything the next evening when he came over for dinner to find me hopping about on one foot.
monshu has been quite supportive, considering he confesses to not having much sympathy given the circumstances under which the injury occurred. If I needed proof of how feeble I've become in my old age, I have it now, as I sit hear waiting for my PCP to call me back with information on obtaining crutches.![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Feel better! Maybe try some chicken soup? It couldn't hurt.
no subject
no subject