nobody gonna take my car

Oh, man.

Friday saw the official debut of Flat Earth Theatre’s Night of Christopher Durang One Acts. A large and loud audience rewarded our efforts with laughs in all the right places. The newly minted Smithneys came to see it, along with Katie H. and Lisa B. from jiu-jitsu. I got flowers.

Afterward I dragged Skim, Rick and newcomer Viv and her boy from the theater to 90s Night. We met Belladonna, Perotti and Kate there, as well as LJ regulars two_stabs and damn it, sorry, forgot the other gentleman’s name. Oh, well. A remarkably beer-heavy and drama-free evening (aside from Perotti knocking a full beer glass out of Kate’s hand and down her pants) followed.

Since Michael Phelps brought tall skinny dudes back in style, I added some swimming to my workout on Saturday. I had forgot how fun it feels to immerse yourself in a body of water and let something denser than air support your weight. I had also forgot how hard swimming is, especially after a full workout. After as many laps as I could manage, I dried off in the sauna, took my time showering and had Burger King for lunch.

After another Flat Earth Theater performance that evening, I stopped in at Pete F’s birthday party at Tavern on the Square. I met folks I’d known in name only from IB, like Hannah F. and Jason C., and bought Pete at least one drink. The conversation turned to the Olympics, given its ubiquitous coverage. We agreed that the biathlon was a weirder event than the pentathlon – the pentathlon at least measures a broad cross-section, whereas the biathlon was apparently picked out of a hat full of slips.

Normally I’d crash at this point in the evening, but the niacin megadose I’d taken before Pete’s party carried me through to Katie Proulx’s final show at ImprovBoston. I had an excellent conversation with Michelle McN., debated the merits of Chinese Democracy with Marc Hirsh and shared pizza with Bobby S. In the wee hours, Will cranked the volume in the main theater and started a dance party while Clash of the Titans played in the background. Holy hell, that movie looks weird.

After the matinee performance on Sunday, Melissa and Fraley invited me over for Rock Band. I spent a few minutes designing a custom guitar player who looked just like me for their band, Style Merchants, and then proceeded to crap out on drums. And vocals. So we took a break for nachos and beer and Olympic boxing before diving back in.

My thoughts:

  • Train Kept A-Rollin’: “The song just started; how can I already have a guitar solo? Oh, well. Probably the last one.”

  • Highway Star: “These lyrics are pretty insipid.”

  • The Hand That Feeds: “Do you even need three people to play this song, or just one person playing three times?”

  • Maps: “Finally, a drum track easy enough for me to play.”

  • Gimme Shelter: “Raaaaaaape … MURRRR-daaaaaa ….

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2 Responses

  1. Post-workout Burger King? I guess you’re taking cues from Michael Phelps’ diet too.

  2. The “eat whatever the goddamned hell you like, so long as you swim 6 hours a day” diet.

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