Now I Am Nine

Tom was in his car, drivin'. He looked around.

"Oh hell. Am I in your blog?"

I gave him a puckish grin. "You sure are. First time! How does it feel?"

"I feel violated."

"Yeah. That's the stuff. In fact, back in the Nineties I played a Bond villain who shot rays from his enormous dork glasses. My name was Francisco della Dorkface. I was Bond's greatest nemesis, until someone pulled down my tube socks."

"You will now die, Mr. Bond..." 

(Okay, someone get this goddamn dog off me.)

"I need a coffee. And a donut. And some candy." Tom swerved across lanes, driving like a crazy Brooklynite and not like us good country folk in Denver. Tires screeching, we stopped at a 7-Eleven. "You're not going to make fun of me, are you?"

"Of course not *mumble mumble*."

"What was that mumble?"

"Nothing! Mumble!"

After we got Swizzlers, some Charlie Chans, a pack of Gwoobies and sticks of Quaalude Cremes, we went to a grocery store to get Pacifico beers. This led me to wax rhapsodic about the six-pack of Pacifico beer I still had in my fridge back home. Tom originally bought the six-pack in January 2012, and downed two of them. Then they sat there, year after year, feeling sad. Was anyone going to drink me? Then in 2013 a coworker, Margaret, helped herself to one. Yay!! And then later that year Jeremy's wife, Jen, had one for some reason. Tom, Margaret, and Jen will never meet or know each other. And to make it even more fun, Tom lives on the east coast, Margaret on the west coast, and Jen here in Denver. Now if we can just get someone from Saskatoon to drink one of the two remaining beers. Also, Tierra del Fuego.

"You want to drink me? You feel lucky, punk?"

"Fuck. You still have those beers?" Tom spluttered, clusters of Kluungoo on his fat lips. "Don't you ever have company over?"

"Of course I do!" I said, offended. Then I hung my head. "No. I have no friends. Except for the cardboard cutouts of Steve Martin everywhere."

"Let stop in this DSW. I need to get a pair of shoes."

"Right. And do you need to buy a horse? Or a pair of pliers? Some joists?"

"Please stop talking."

We stood in the aisle contemplating the serene rows of shoes, almost lost in mystical ecstasy. Then some old guy in a rumpled security uniform stood behind Tom. Tom noticed the man, startled, and babbled apologies. The man said nothing, just stood there. Finally, Tom stepped aside, and the man went around him down the aisle.

"I thought he was security here," Tom said.

"You have a guilty conscience," I said. "Must be all those blueberry Flok-Bwroks you keep eating."

We went to the store to buy more supplies of Qwarmies. As Tom checked out, the bagger smiled at me.

"Fun plans for the weekend?"

"Do I look like someone who has fun plans?"

The bagger looked at me. "No."

We got in the car and drove down Colorado Boulevard.

"That's where Andrew Schuler's mom used to live."

"Right," I said. "And that's where Jamie Katzifikis threw eggs at old people. And over here, that's where Dale Eckern had a bowel movement. Oh! Oh! Over here William McKesson murdered a guy with a Bubble Up."

"What is wrong with you?"

"Actually I've been having blood in my sperms. Weird, huh."

Tom was outraged and revolted, in that order. "Why the fuck are you telling me that?"

"I thought we were at that level of friendship where we can freely talk about our sperms."

"Not THAT level of friendship. Jesus. Save it for your proctologist."

We went to an ice cream shoppe and had a malted.

"If you could see anyone in concert, who would it be? Bob Dylan? Bruce Springsteen? Paul McCartney?"

Tom made a face as he crunched on his Banana Sprinkle Medusa Parfait. "No. I hate going to concerts. You have to stand. And people are so noisy. All these idiots around you yelling. No, thanks."

"What about Roy Orbison? Would you see him if he came back from the grave?"

Tom thought a moment. "No. Probably not."

"How about Cameo? If they reformed, and they played just for you?"

"WHO WANTS TO GET FUNKED BY MY RED FUNK BANANA?"

"I already saw them. We funked all night. And then got abso-funky-lutely funked in the funk."

"Now you're getting it," I said. "You're a fine addition to the blog."

"Please do not involve me ever again in this or any subsidiary projects, in perpetuity."

"Can I tell you that Pat decked a guy out on a hiking trail?"

"No," Tom and Andy said in unison.

"That was the term he used. Decked. I think he's up to about seven over the last year. Apparently someone had a dog that was annoying Pat's dog, and so Pat decked the guy, and the guy was catching his blood pouring out of his mouth as Pat went off victoriously and he... Tom? Andy? Where'd they go?"

"Oh."

RAISE A PACIFICO TO NINE YEARS OF THIS IDIOT BLOG!! OR DON'T SEE IF I CARE