All the Denvers are Dying
Being devastated has its priviliges.
Namely, discounts on alcohol and prolonged conversations with cute waitresses.
My Three Fugees rolled into Austin last night. I gave them a mini-tour of south Austin before we hit Opal's for some divine cheese fries, a handful of $2 Shiners, and nostalgia. We ended up sitting next to another NOLA fugee whose house WAS flooded. But her giant stack of french fries, her endless stream of beers, and her tattoos seemed to keep her company.
Tonight, I'm introducing My Three Fugees to the slam. It's the NEW SHIT SLAM, y'all, which means I may not read, having blown a majority of my "new shit" in the last couple of weeks. That's right: I blew my new shit. Tot gross.
I wish I'd thought of this line for a poem, which I heard on an episode of Nip/Tuck: "If Anne Frank had been living in your attic, she never would've made it past 'Dear Diary...'"
Namely, discounts on alcohol and prolonged conversations with cute waitresses.
My Three Fugees rolled into Austin last night. I gave them a mini-tour of south Austin before we hit Opal's for some divine cheese fries, a handful of $2 Shiners, and nostalgia. We ended up sitting next to another NOLA fugee whose house WAS flooded. But her giant stack of french fries, her endless stream of beers, and her tattoos seemed to keep her company.
Tonight, I'm introducing My Three Fugees to the slam. It's the NEW SHIT SLAM, y'all, which means I may not read, having blown a majority of my "new shit" in the last couple of weeks. That's right: I blew my new shit. Tot gross.
I wish I'd thought of this line for a poem, which I heard on an episode of Nip/Tuck: "If Anne Frank had been living in your attic, she never would've made it past 'Dear Diary...'"