Manny, Moe, and Jack Walk Into a Bar
Last night was another barn-burner of a team rehearsal, with all team members in attendance and all of them working their asses off on some hot-hot-hot group work, some of which you lucky girls and guys will see if you attend tomorrow night's 10th Annual Austin Slam Scrimmage. This is Team Austin versus Team San Antonio versus Team Neo Soul versus two "all star" teams, made up of folks like Tony Jackson, Genevieve, MJC, David Hendler, Sonya, and Shannon. Team Austin has never---let me impress that further upon your sleepy membranes: never---lost the scrimmage, ever. The heat is on. The heat is o-on. The heat is on. It's on the streets.
This weekend was truly schizo. I awaoke Saturday feeling healthy, wealthy, and wise. Did a couple mile run/hike through the creek, did some laps around the pool, picked up a new phone (designed, apparently, by BMW), and bought some hipster t-shirts. But then ... BUMBUMBUMMMMMMMMMM! The Focus---whom I've named Ferris---went haywire. I suspect my alternator went kaput as karmic payback for going to the mall. It died on the road, with just enough momentum left to coast into the parking lot of a Brake Specialists Plus.
P.s. Never ever take your car to Brake Specialist Plus on South Lamar, as the "Plus" in their name stands for "Plus we'll try to gorge your wallet and rape your bank account like they were desperate wenches in need of some filching."
Then Sunday, I went tubing down the Comal for the first time this summer. Because I have no friends, Andrea let me tag along with her and her buddies. Cool folks, top to bottom. And I was truly blitzed by the time we'd floated to the end. I mean, lit up, bro. We stumbled our way to a restaurant where I thought it'd be a splendid idea to do a couple of shots of Jagger and tequila. Turns out, they wanted to rape my stomach. The drive home wasn't pleasant, with me telling jokes about deceased toddlers that offended some, amused others, and with some passed-out guy having a mid-sleep asthma attack on my shoulder.
But it was fun, don't get me wrong.
And now, my car's still in the shop, though not the shitty shop, the good shop---the shop with the three Italian brothers. Jack is obviously the adopted brother.
This weekend was truly schizo. I awaoke Saturday feeling healthy, wealthy, and wise. Did a couple mile run/hike through the creek, did some laps around the pool, picked up a new phone (designed, apparently, by BMW), and bought some hipster t-shirts. But then ... BUMBUMBUMMMMMMMMMM! The Focus---whom I've named Ferris---went haywire. I suspect my alternator went kaput as karmic payback for going to the mall. It died on the road, with just enough momentum left to coast into the parking lot of a Brake Specialists Plus.
P.s. Never ever take your car to Brake Specialist Plus on South Lamar, as the "Plus" in their name stands for "Plus we'll try to gorge your wallet and rape your bank account like they were desperate wenches in need of some filching."
Then Sunday, I went tubing down the Comal for the first time this summer. Because I have no friends, Andrea let me tag along with her and her buddies. Cool folks, top to bottom. And I was truly blitzed by the time we'd floated to the end. I mean, lit up, bro. We stumbled our way to a restaurant where I thought it'd be a splendid idea to do a couple of shots of Jagger and tequila. Turns out, they wanted to rape my stomach. The drive home wasn't pleasant, with me telling jokes about deceased toddlers that offended some, amused others, and with some passed-out guy having a mid-sleep asthma attack on my shoulder.
But it was fun, don't get me wrong.
And now, my car's still in the shop, though not the shitty shop, the good shop---the shop with the three Italian brothers. Jack is obviously the adopted brother.