Plans for the professional website have been put on hold. My savior turned out to be another slacker; if I had the money more disciplined computer gurus demand, I’d be acting very irresponsibly in a state that begins with the letter ‘F’. But the journey to Casey’s starts with finding the car keys. (I sense a theme coming on).
Tomorrow I’ll put my stomach back to the counter and twirl the soup spoon of literary mediocrity. I would proceed with Juan’s Way this evening but for a lengthy respite spent drinking with somebody named Glenn. Glenn is from Oakland, California. He has a female space alien tattooed on his right forearm. The odds are better than good that he has other inked works of art on his body. How can somebody from Oakland, California stop with just one female space alien? I’d like to think that skin seldom exposed to men has the cast of Star Wars permanently etched into its wrinkly expanse. Perhaps a lucky lass has run her fingers across Darth Vader’s large helmet after Glenn spun his web of unique inter-galactic space, wooing the broad with big city bravado and thin pony tail.
But he bought me beers after I helped him get two trivia questions right in a row. He massaged my frail ego and I lifted his score above a nearly comatose chick wearing what appeared to be panties on her head. Out of touch with what younger humans consider fashionable, maybe ecru panties signifies high social status among those who pierce their face.
Well, Juan is feeling weak. The eyes are going and Roi is scooting his butt across the hovel’s hard plywood flooring. He may just be playing.
Juan
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