I hate when there are bones in my whiskey.

You'll notice, when driving east on 37th street, right before you hit the Hwy 63 intersection, that one of the poles that marks the low lying median is dented.

That was me. That...was me.

Not drunk, of course not. Who knows what was going on last night--maybe I was just that tired, maybe I was daydreaming, maybe I fell asleep for a minute and didn't realize it. But all of a sudden a short yellow pole was directly in front of me, and then I ended up in the other side of the median, and thank God no cars were coming or I'd be in big trouble. I just went off full coverage insurance a couple of days ago, down to liability. What a weird moment. Also: Minnesota--reflective paint on the roads? That'd be pretty fucking awesome. Let's give that a try. I drove back over the median, to the right side of the road, and then went on my way as though nothing happened, as though every other car on that road wasn't like: what the fuck and writing down my plate numbers.

I got to Whiskey Bones, the Tony Sims Rochester venue and checked for damage. None. Now it's funny. I ran into a pole, like smack center. Alright. I can deal with that. It takes a special kind of retard to run into a pole with her car, and a special kind of talent to minimize the damage when you hit it at 30 miles an hour.

The TSB was the TSB in half, missing Smokey and Dave (who Tony said had something "gay" to do), and drinks were two for one, but I only wanted one, so I gave Ryan the other; I got there at 9:00, sat with Melissa, right next to the dance floor, and spent the next couple of hours in a night that was a hazy version of a Thursday at the MMC. Rochester drunkards, it turns out, are no different than St. Paul drunkards.

And why wouldn't they be. Notably, though, was the woman who was drunk--wasted, annihilated, trashed, barely knowing her name--by 10:00. She wandered the dance floor alone, trying to pull men out to dance with her. She stood in the middle of the floor while Tony was playing and screamed what is wrong with you people! to the entire crowd, and when Tony was done talked to him (I said to Melissa, I knew she was going to talk to him) and reminded him that she changed out of her pajamas to come here tonight, and wouldn't someone just dance! and Tony announced this--because, why not!--and asked her if she'd been at home with hot cocoa, too, all snuggled up, and she said I bought your CD! and he said I knew I liked something about you.

Of course, before and after this, she'd spent her time harassing Melissa, among all of the other women on the floor. Melissa decided she was probably into girls. I decided we'd call her the Lurking Lesbian.

Who was in charge of this woman? And how did she get home, I wonder. How did she not trip over a bar stool and wake up this morning with a black and blue face and mascara running down into the corners of her mouth, as though she was wearing Kiss makeup gone wrong.

I miss the MMC; I always miss it. It's the TSB, but it's the people watching, too. Melissa and I talked about the ones we remembered--turns out that mine and Shannon's first "nickname," Crazy Cheetah (Melissa--that was here name, I'd thought it was something with a leopard, but now I remember it was most certainly Crazy Cheetah--Shannon and I were often fans of alliteration in our nicknames...Crazy Cheetah, Sleepy Stripper)--anyway. Her alias is Mustang Sally, another suiting nickname for her ridiculous, gratuitous enthusiasm during that song.

Shannon: remember when you saw Slutzilla at Target buying makeup? Silly Slutzilla. They don't sell makeup for green, scaly dinosaurs. Nor moisturizer. And how does one put on eyeliner with such short tyrannosaurus arms?

Last night a man played harmonica from the floor while the band played. I couldn't tell if it was air harmonica or a real harmonica, but either way it should've at least been in the key of A. If you bring your harmonica to a bar, do you bring your whole set, or just a couple of keys and hope for the best? The big questions in life.

If you bring your air harmonica, do you leave your medication at home, so you don't have to carry too much in your pocket?

Tony has promised to start a blog, and I'll harass him until it happens. There will be a link to his blog here, soon, because he has promised to start a blog. Because Melisa says that the drunkards in Atlanta are much like the drunkards in Rochester, who are much like the drunkards in St. Paul. The world needs to see these people. They need to be nicknamed. Women who remove their pantyhose at a wedding by extending a leg high up and over on a table, and by pulling at the toe with thumb and index finger need to be acknowledged for their wonderful gifts. Especially if these women are flashing the whole wedding crowd and aren't wearing under-panties.

Tony: blog. Don't you need someplace to tell Minnesota that Hotlanta is a frigid 40 degrees some days? That there are, at times, 100 degree differences between us?

**

I'm house/dog sitting this weekend, sitting in a Lazy-boy, in the den, in the house where Sue lives. Three day weekend, thank you Presidents' Day, and I haven't done a damn thing other than run a good five miles and avoid grading papers. There are 65 of them to grade, there are two full weeks of lessons to plan for each class, more literature to read and comprehend before teaching it to the juniors, an autobiography to finish, a couple handouts to create, a paper to design, copies and copies and copies to make. It's been difficult to get motivated. I have a resume to revise, a cover letter to write, a letter I've promised myself I'd write to my father, two tutoring sessions to plan for the week, plans to consider for next week when I won't have time because of Bockfest--Bockfest, next week, praise all to be praised for Bockfest.

Not until you write it down do you realize you'll never get it all done. Gulp. Good thing I've got a new CD to listen to, new itunes that I've downloaded, too. Happy Sunday, all, don't call me in hours, because I'll be literally drowned in teacher-work, coughing the tiny vocabulary quizzes out of my lungs into spitballs on the floor.