Half The Man I Used To Be (Weekend in Review)
Already down in the dumps over last week’s column fiasco, I somewhat looked forward to this last weekend as a sort of emotional pallet cleanser. Rose about 4pm Thursday, hovered about aimlessly before showering and heading to the office (late). There I made up things to do until Friday morning when I went home, watched the Three Stooges, and napped for a couple hours before getting up and running vital errands: Bank, downtown to buy four baseball tickets to that night’s game and lunch before heading home, whence I prepared a rent payment and laid back down. Any hopes of a follow-up nap were for some reason impossible, so instead of sleeping I watched the History Channel’s Abraham Lincoln special on video for the three trillionth time.
Hopped out of bed about 430pm; for those of you interested, that means I’d managed approximately two hours sleep in the previous twenty-four-and-a-half. To the bathroom to shave my head and shower, and by the time I was dressed it was time to drive to South Bend, fetch my son (aged 13) and head to the baseball game, where we met my brother (Cool Hand) and my father (Mr. Wise to you). First pitch was at 730pm with fireworks afterward (which is apparently the norm after Friday night home games, unbeknownst to me earlier in the day); good guys lost 3-0 but the fireworks were quite passable.
Long about the seventh inning I received a text message from Twitch, this tiny little bi-sexual girl I know. Twitch is the kind of gal that really makes you glad you’re not married or seriously dating someone: utterly lacking reservation about the life she lives and why she lives it, she’s quite content to laugh and talk about that time you fingered her in a public hot tub and in the aftermath walked to the pool with a boner the size of Andre the Giant’s arm, yielding a sense of humor you’d sooner expect from one of the guys. Said another way, she’s someone your wife or girlfriend would absolutely hate if she met and would have a seizure if she found out later you wanted to meet at a bar for a beer.
Anyways: Twitch was out and about, wandering around with a friend near my place, and wondering what time I was going to be home. No guarantees, I replied; once we were done at the game, I was taking my son to see the Harry Potter freakshow at the Barnes and Noble. What time was too late to text her back for a visit? (The answer: “4am.” Thatta girl.) We finally got out of the ballpark about 11pm and headed straight for the bookstore, which we reached around 1130pm (meaning two hours of sleep in the previous thirty-one-and-a-half).
I’ve attended concerts with fewer fucking cars in the parking lot. The building already packed to the capacity allowed by the fire code, a line streamed out the door, around the corner and most of the way toward the back of the quite-large-for-a-bookstore building. Not only was the Barnes and Noble lot packed, so were two nearby lots normally reserved for a few restaurants, and a decently sized strip mall lot, around to the back of both buildings, where people were just making up places to park.
We headed to the front of the line, people gazing. My son managed to dodge the Harry Potter fad in each of its numerous phases, but we did spy many little kids in various states of character related dress; for them, standing outside in line at midnight in fifty degree weather must have been the coolest thing ever, least of all because they were allowed to do all the things no eight or nine-year-old should be allowed to do: Stay up past midnight, dress up in play clothes with no concern for the weather, talk excitedly to adult strangers about the one thing in the world in which they have a common interest.
We made our way over to a used music and DVD store nearby, which had stayed open to take advantage of the line across the way; I’m friendly with most of the staff, especially the guy working this night, a fellow Beloved Atlanta Braves fan. In a discussion about (2006 TGO Awards Movie of the Year winner) Clerks II, my son made a brilliant “Listerfiend” callback and we made one last lap around the weirdos before being forced to make a ten point turn just to get out of the goddamned parking lot.
Was home by 1am (meaning two hours of sleep in the previous thirty-three), when I sent Twitch a text message informing her I was home. She arrived about 130am. Her hair and tattoos looked great. We sat around and babbled incessantly, watched Red Eye on Fox News Channel, then Lisa Lampanelli on Comedy Central and chose new music to signify incoming calls on her cell before things started to get sleepy. We generally made a nuisance out of ourselves until she went home about 730am, allowing me (after an email check) about 45 minutes of sleep before Stuntman Mike arrived for breakfast. I was unspeakably short and rude to Stuntman Mike, but eventually came around and we got away for breakfast after a quick caffeine injection.
Was finally in bed about noon Saturday (which equals two hours and forty-five minutes of sleep in the previous forty). Slept effortlessly until 9pm; rolled over and watched British sit-coms until midnight before falling back asleep until about 3am Sunday, when I had to field a phone call, and then until 7am, when I fed the cats, took a piss and slept until about noon.
At four o’clock Sunday afternoon, my local public television station aired Young Frankenstein unedited and without solicitations; later in the night I napped and am now, Monday morning, listening to Amy Winehouse’s wonderful album. My back hurts like I’ve got fucking meningitis, my throat is throwing off a dull pain, both ankles are killing me, and my previously self-diagnosed hip injury actually turned out to be a hamstring injury acquired while engaging in a light workout two Sundays ago, meaning that I’ll be spending the next two months walking like an eighty-four-year-old woman. I am literally half the man I used to be, but in every other way I’m feeling much better than at this time last week; think I’ll head over to one of the local radio stations and have a DJ I know give me a tour. (Will also ask after the White Stripes tickets I inquired about early last week.)
We’ll see about a column this week.
Hopped out of bed about 430pm; for those of you interested, that means I’d managed approximately two hours sleep in the previous twenty-four-and-a-half. To the bathroom to shave my head and shower, and by the time I was dressed it was time to drive to South Bend, fetch my son (aged 13) and head to the baseball game, where we met my brother (Cool Hand) and my father (Mr. Wise to you). First pitch was at 730pm with fireworks afterward (which is apparently the norm after Friday night home games, unbeknownst to me earlier in the day); good guys lost 3-0 but the fireworks were quite passable.
Long about the seventh inning I received a text message from Twitch, this tiny little bi-sexual girl I know. Twitch is the kind of gal that really makes you glad you’re not married or seriously dating someone: utterly lacking reservation about the life she lives and why she lives it, she’s quite content to laugh and talk about that time you fingered her in a public hot tub and in the aftermath walked to the pool with a boner the size of Andre the Giant’s arm, yielding a sense of humor you’d sooner expect from one of the guys. Said another way, she’s someone your wife or girlfriend would absolutely hate if she met and would have a seizure if she found out later you wanted to meet at a bar for a beer.
Anyways: Twitch was out and about, wandering around with a friend near my place, and wondering what time I was going to be home. No guarantees, I replied; once we were done at the game, I was taking my son to see the Harry Potter freakshow at the Barnes and Noble. What time was too late to text her back for a visit? (The answer: “4am.” Thatta girl.) We finally got out of the ballpark about 11pm and headed straight for the bookstore, which we reached around 1130pm (meaning two hours of sleep in the previous thirty-one-and-a-half).
I’ve attended concerts with fewer fucking cars in the parking lot. The building already packed to the capacity allowed by the fire code, a line streamed out the door, around the corner and most of the way toward the back of the quite-large-for-a-bookstore building. Not only was the Barnes and Noble lot packed, so were two nearby lots normally reserved for a few restaurants, and a decently sized strip mall lot, around to the back of both buildings, where people were just making up places to park.
We headed to the front of the line, people gazing. My son managed to dodge the Harry Potter fad in each of its numerous phases, but we did spy many little kids in various states of character related dress; for them, standing outside in line at midnight in fifty degree weather must have been the coolest thing ever, least of all because they were allowed to do all the things no eight or nine-year-old should be allowed to do: Stay up past midnight, dress up in play clothes with no concern for the weather, talk excitedly to adult strangers about the one thing in the world in which they have a common interest.
We made our way over to a used music and DVD store nearby, which had stayed open to take advantage of the line across the way; I’m friendly with most of the staff, especially the guy working this night, a fellow Beloved Atlanta Braves fan. In a discussion about (2006 TGO Awards Movie of the Year winner) Clerks II, my son made a brilliant “Listerfiend” callback and we made one last lap around the weirdos before being forced to make a ten point turn just to get out of the goddamned parking lot.
Was home by 1am (meaning two hours of sleep in the previous thirty-three), when I sent Twitch a text message informing her I was home. She arrived about 130am. Her hair and tattoos looked great. We sat around and babbled incessantly, watched Red Eye on Fox News Channel, then Lisa Lampanelli on Comedy Central and chose new music to signify incoming calls on her cell before things started to get sleepy. We generally made a nuisance out of ourselves until she went home about 730am, allowing me (after an email check) about 45 minutes of sleep before Stuntman Mike arrived for breakfast. I was unspeakably short and rude to Stuntman Mike, but eventually came around and we got away for breakfast after a quick caffeine injection.
Was finally in bed about noon Saturday (which equals two hours and forty-five minutes of sleep in the previous forty). Slept effortlessly until 9pm; rolled over and watched British sit-coms until midnight before falling back asleep until about 3am Sunday, when I had to field a phone call, and then until 7am, when I fed the cats, took a piss and slept until about noon.
At four o’clock Sunday afternoon, my local public television station aired Young Frankenstein unedited and without solicitations; later in the night I napped and am now, Monday morning, listening to Amy Winehouse’s wonderful album. My back hurts like I’ve got fucking meningitis, my throat is throwing off a dull pain, both ankles are killing me, and my previously self-diagnosed hip injury actually turned out to be a hamstring injury acquired while engaging in a light workout two Sundays ago, meaning that I’ll be spending the next two months walking like an eighty-four-year-old woman. I am literally half the man I used to be, but in every other way I’m feeling much better than at this time last week; think I’ll head over to one of the local radio stations and have a DJ I know give me a tour. (Will also ask after the White Stripes tickets I inquired about early last week.)
We’ll see about a column this week.
posted by Brian S. Wise | 8:05 AM
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