Well most of you know I used to blog pretty extensively, and it was a good way to relate the stories and keep them close to my heart. You know, like the crazy woman that passed out in my yard and when she woke up, she asked where Cracktown was. "Cracktown's on the other side of that bridge, chica."
"Well, can I crash here?"
"In the yard? Sure. In the house, not so much."
Totally true story. I have witnesses. Weirder, I confused this crazy woman with a totally different crazy woman that went to the Duck a few times, and who ended up in my yard another time, after Wilma.
These crazy women shouldn't be mixed up with the crazy girl that showered in our bathroom on the 4th of July (same year the woman got run over and we had to watch her kid because her bf seemed a little too sketchy), and ended up crashing with the Brazilians down the street, except for a while, and you'd just see her in the same outfit for a week, going to 7-11 to buy beer.
They could have at least given her a flag to make into a halter top. As noted with everybody's best friend, Scott (not Avery), the American flag, as gorgeous as it is, makes a crappy halter top. But the Brazilian flag? Mmmmmmm, the things you notice at soccer games. Anyway, she just had the same tshirt she prolly stole from one of my roommates.
So yeah, even though Cracktown really is on the other side of the bridge, this is still Crazyville.
Last weekend I got home from an evening out, and there was a guy passed out on the utility pole in the front yard. His girlfriend was circling him, not like a shark, but protectively, like a porpoise fending off an Elian obsessed mako.
"Hey guys."
"Hey."
"What's in the bag? Beer? I sure could use a beer." This is the girl talking.
I stopped at 7-11 and got a Red Bull for the AM and some Frito's because I was hungry. I've convinced myself that eating something before going to bed drunk isn't a bad thing. Actually, it settles the stomach...in Paul's Theoryland (for those keeping score, yeah, I live in Crazyville, Theoryland).
"No beer. Sorry. Just Frito's and a Red Bull."
"Freedom? Nobody has any freedom anymore!" This is the guy talking. Holy shit, he has a guitar! As in, that's no moon, it's a space station...no...wait...it's a guitar. I resist the urge to wake up a roommate or two so we can partake of the hootenany. It's just me and the faux-ppies.
She explains that freedom is the beach, the ocean. And that I should hang out at the coffee house. They have an open mic. Duh. That's why there's a guy and a guitar under the streetlight and a girlfriend in orbit...in my yard. I'm surprised there haven't been more. How many renditions of whatever Jack Johnson is easiest to play I have slept through? I don't even remember the conclusion, but I am pretty sure that the Fritos/freedom thing was the highpoint.
Sidebar: I wanted to call the Fritos/freedom thing a spoonerism, not particularly because it is a spoonerism, because it isn't, but because I wanted to say the word 'spoonerism,' which I guess I just did.
Anyway, about me, huh? Well you don't have to be a CSI watcher to see the funny in this situation, but that's me. I see the funny things.