"That which is overdesigned, too highly specific, anticipates outcome; the anticipation of outcome guarantees, if not failure, the absence of grace."
-- William Gibson, All Tomorrow's Parties
The Magic of File Extensions.

Feeling a bit under the weather, to put it mildly.

Friday after work -- in fact, as soon as 1700 hit -- I think the entire office went out to New World Cafe and started with the Mass Consumption of Alcohol. That was ... special. I don't know more than five people at the office, really, and the rest I think maybe I don't ever want to see drunked-up again.

Saturday afternoon Pete and I hit up the diner. The one waitress asked us where everyone else was, and where the hell we'd been lately. Which is amusing, as we go there maybe one a month these days. Used to be three times a week. Pete doesn't go out much anymore, and we got a window booth, so needless to say there was a fair amount of remote ogling going on. I totally got a dirty look from some hot girl's average-looking friend. Made my day for sure.

kitten was up in Cherry Hill over the weekend for his grandfather's 90th birthday. He managed to flee to the city Saturday night. I picked him up in a cab at 8th and Market, and we hit up Doobies, which was pretty much totally beat. Evan and Juli came out, and Nick K. showed up randomly.

I didn't think to take any pictures, but kitten was pretty gothed out. A bit out of place at Doobies, but hey. Fuckin' collared boy.

After killing a couple pitchers, we walked down to Factory, and kitten, being the silly fuck he is, scaled the wall from the third floor walkway to the roof; there's a stairwell about two feet from where he climbed up, but hey. Stairs are for pussies, evidently. Of course, he became convinced he had lost his keys while climbing the ten foot wall, so we got to scrounge around with our cell phone displays looking for them.

Philadelphia is less than awesomely pretty when it's covered in hazy doom.

Eventually he managed to get back to his hotel in Cherry Hill, and I passed the fuck out. The next day he txt'd me, insisting his keys weren't in his hotel room. So me, my immune system already shutting down, dragged my ass down to Factory (thanks for the ride, Pete) and looked around for the keys. Unfound. Txt'd him back asking maybe had he left them in a bag or something, which is what I do when traveling, to avoid this very problem.

"Don't you think I looked there?"

Followed by a call ten seconds later: "Uh, you can call off any search operations. Found them." "Good. Where were they?" "...where the fuck do you think? Where you said they'd be."

Silly kitten.

So yeah. Other than that, nothing happened this weekend. I'm well-sick. Super Throat Doom Action, with the Sinus Killer of Pluto to boot.

August 8, 2005 5:33 PM

We need to find a way to keep you from getting sick all the time, Bryan! Get some rest, dammit!

Posted by: calliope at August 9, 2005 7:32 AM

Needs more germs, and less soap.

Posted by: Stevers at August 9, 2005 9:14 AM

AT least he called you back. I was waiting up until the early hours of the morning to take him back to the airport, once he got his spare keys, to get his car. And of course he has his cell phone off the whole time.

Get well soon Shrike.

Posted by: Jimbo at August 10, 2005 11:25 AM

ha. Stupid kitten.


Posted by: bda at August 10, 2005 12:16 PM
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