you can try to fix my broken wings; you can know all the words to the songs I sing

Busy week so far.

After having a knee ground into my tibia, getting my hair pulled and taking a shot to the kidneys in jiu-jitsu last night, the only thing that really hurts this morning is my wrist. And I don’t know from what. Probably arnis work.

I stopped by a barbecue hosted by one of Sarah H’s friends afterward, changing shirts first. After one PBR, a hot dog and a burger, I made the mistake of mentioning “harlequin babies” in front of a laptop. Or rather, a curious person who gets weepy when drunk, and a laptop. Do not Google the term ‘harlequin babies’. I don’t mean this in the sense people normally mean it. When people say, “The ‘Star Wars Christmas Special’ is unforgivably awful,” they’re not trying to keep you from seeing it. They’re building up their geek cred by talking about having been in the shit. Same thing with “2 girls 1 cup” and the like. When I say do not Google the term ‘harlequin babies’, there’s no implied “… unless you want to see something really gross” or “… unless you have a strong stomach.” You don’t need to guess at the enthymeme. When I say don’t I mean don’t.

After Gorefest rehearsal on Wednesday, during which Matt C. roundly cursed at the ocean as an unhappy husband might make comments he knew his wife would overhear, I stopped in at Asgard for weekly karaoke. Dana J., Robert W. and I, without corresponding ahead of time, created a theme of “the saddest songs imaginable.” I told Dana J. that I’d have to go sadder after he treated us to Coldplay’s “The Scientist.” “The only song I can imagine sadder than that,” he replied, “would be Johnny Cash’s cover of Hurt.” How well he knows me, as that’s the song I’d already entered. I ended the song towering over Kevin Q., offering him my “empire of dirt” with an accusing finger. “Now I’ll never sleep again,” he remarked. Success!

This was my second time at Asgard that week, as S. had gathered folks for good-bye drinks on Tuesday. She didn’t know that Tuesday is trivia night at Asgard, so I introduced myself to her friends as “that asshole,” as I always am when bar trivia’s on the line. She was shocked, shocked!, that her team’s name, “The Drunken Poodles,” was not the most ridiculous team name in attendance that night. We staged a competitive showing on the Fill-In-The-Blanks section before I had to leave.

Monday I rehearsed music with Steve G., Gorefest composer, and Liz C., with whom I have a duet. He gave us a tour of the unfinished skeleton of his house’s new wing, pointing out the master bedroom, the open-air bathroom behind it, his wife’s designing studio, his future music room, etc. “So this is what it’s like to have money,” I said, staring in envy at the bedroom larger than my apartment. “This is what it’s like to have had money,” Steve corrected. “And to not have kids.” “This just makes me want to play The Sims,” Liz commented.

At some point in the above I slept.

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