...Not the kind of wheel you fall asleep at...

Bush Flyers and Mud-Wrestling

Last night after a full-bellied meal of sushi that M managed to sweet-talk me into, I went to see a friend of a friend play at the Barking Spider. His set was good, though a bit hesitant at times. One song he always plays makes my heart ache and makes me feel like crying... every single time. There is something impressive about that.

Afterwards, post musician-schmoozing, four of us sat under what was SUPPOSED to be a fiendishly stormy night sky, which was instead seething only with summery heat and a slight breeze, and gabbed over beer. A friend of my friend's friend (friend thrice-removed?) rambled on quite a bit. This was worth the extra time we spent sitting there, and most certainly worth toughing out some free beer.

Beer tangles thoughts. It also untangles them and makes them coherent again, in an alternate-reality where only unsober folks convene.

Last evening, we concluded (and tried to explain to M who is NOT a beer-drinker) that the first time you realize that beer tastes good is a magical experience, replete with fairies and rainbows and pegasuses (or pegasii, this was also briefly discussed), like the sudden flicking on of a switch inside you that makes your brain go BEER--GOOD despite having muttered BEER TASTE LIKE CRAP for months and years prior.

I am not sure whether we convinced her or not.

I lit up a cigarette in honor of a friend and fellow employee who had recently removed me from his Top-10 list of "[NAME OF MY WORKPLACE] hotties" because I smoke on occasion. Discussion then wandered off and friend thrice-removed and friend twice-removed began to yammer a bit about a faltering relationship of two friends of theirs (friends four-times removed to me). Friend thrice-removed suddenly burst into an analogy of how the love-life and desire of these two friends to head off into the sunset to find adventure was much like that of the bush flyers. He had just watched something recently on the history channel about the bush flyers and was awed by them and could not contain this awe and kept letting it spill over into rambles about relationships and the horror of nearing the age of 30. Clearly he was showing off by flexing his "glistening brain-muscles" for our entertainment--"Oh, friend thrice-removed, what big gray matter you have! Talk to me about bush flyers some more! Yes! OH YES!!!"

I tried not to laugh.

M squeezed my leg under the picnic table several times in order to squelch her own.

Debate ensued over who was in the wrong in this faltering relationship--friend twice-removed suggested the feller, friend thrice-removed said it was clearly the female in the relationship. I suggested mud-wrestling once or twice in order to sort out who was correct on the topic. This was received by awkward half-amused silence and weird sideways glances, though I'm not sure why...

This was not beer-induced rambling, folks: if we were smart enough and used mud-wrestling to solve ALL our problems, we'd most certainly achieve world peace.



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