Glove, glove. Go... point. And having pointed, pound!
Last night was terribly dull, a waste of my Get Out of Jail Free card.
We were released from work "early" as a reward for meeting a product release deadline. A third of the team was on the foosball table, playing away, when our manager stopped by and congratulated us on our accomplishment. He suggested the possibility of us all going home early, but he first had to "go check on something." My suspicion is that he went to his supervisor to confirm that he had permission to make such a magnanimous gesture. We continued to largely ignore his presence (being caught up in a seven game series) when he returned and announced we could in fact leave.
"Alright!" I shouted, a little too loudly. "This means we can spend the next seven hours playing foosball!"
Oddly enough, we did remain at work playing foosball instead of leaving early. However, it should be noted that we were not given permission to jet until roughly 3:30, which is hardly an impressive treat considering the number of people who leave work at 4 on Fridays.
With my extra hour or so, I picked up some CDs at Best Buy (such as The White Stripes: White Blood Cells). I then headed off to A.'s place for a proposed Boy Bünd evening of watching Yellow Submarine and other assorted band flicks while consuming Absinthe (although I had no plans to participate in the latter activity).
What followed was instead a bit of a fiasco. No one arrived anywhere close to our proposed start time. I was left alone with A., hungry and annoyed yet unable to leave or order Chinese food because we expected the others at any time. So, I spent a good hour or so making an ass of myself, bitching about how I was starving, curling up in a fetal position on the couch, and eventually attempting to hang myself off his front door with my belt. A. became exasperated with me.
Thankfully, M. materialized and I was able to play show and tell. I had brought my digicam, so we went over my latest series of fairly rough photos. The headshots are pretty good, the nudes are all crap. We also discussed my masturbation story, which I had sent to her roughly a week ago. It apparently turned her on, which overjoyed me. She then expressed surprise that a story about me masturbating would turn her on, which offended me greatly. I am still dissatisfied with her explanation.
The rest of the evening largely collapsed in upon itself. In some sort of tribute to an Eighties sitcom, the small gathering turned into a bit of a party as people told friends who told other friends and showed up en masse expecting decadent levels of drug consumption. Instead, a single round of Absinthe made it into the hands of maybe 5 people. To satisfy my burning curiosity, I took a taste of someone else's. I would equate the flavor to black licorice mixed with battery acid. DVDs were brought followed by a brief amount of confusion and bitterness that A. does not own a DVD player. There were also demands of "why are we watching this?" from various elements incapable of appreciating the lessons Yellow Submarine has to teach us all.
I did manage to take a few notes for my future Boy Bünd screenplay. But for the most part, I spent the evening in the backyard, eventually a gathering place for all four members of the band (A. conceded the rest of the house to his guests). And, just to rub salt in my wounds, I was trapped at the party far longer than was desirable because H. had parked me into his driveway just before leaving with his girlfriend to attend another gathering. Rifling through his drawers, I found a backup pair of car keys and attempted to move his car. There is, however, some peculiarity of the placement of reverse on a VW Golf, which necessitated the eliciting of V.'s help. So, in the end, I, the sober one, had to allow a man bombed out of his gourd on Absinthe, beer, hash, pot, and God knows what else, to back out H.'s car for me.
I was somewhat humiliated, but I felt a little better when it took V. ten minutes to figure out how to switch the headlights off.
We were released from work "early" as a reward for meeting a product release deadline. A third of the team was on the foosball table, playing away, when our manager stopped by and congratulated us on our accomplishment. He suggested the possibility of us all going home early, but he first had to "go check on something." My suspicion is that he went to his supervisor to confirm that he had permission to make such a magnanimous gesture. We continued to largely ignore his presence (being caught up in a seven game series) when he returned and announced we could in fact leave.
"Alright!" I shouted, a little too loudly. "This means we can spend the next seven hours playing foosball!"
Oddly enough, we did remain at work playing foosball instead of leaving early. However, it should be noted that we were not given permission to jet until roughly 3:30, which is hardly an impressive treat considering the number of people who leave work at 4 on Fridays.
With my extra hour or so, I picked up some CDs at Best Buy (such as The White Stripes: White Blood Cells). I then headed off to A.'s place for a proposed Boy Bünd evening of watching Yellow Submarine and other assorted band flicks while consuming Absinthe (although I had no plans to participate in the latter activity).
What followed was instead a bit of a fiasco. No one arrived anywhere close to our proposed start time. I was left alone with A., hungry and annoyed yet unable to leave or order Chinese food because we expected the others at any time. So, I spent a good hour or so making an ass of myself, bitching about how I was starving, curling up in a fetal position on the couch, and eventually attempting to hang myself off his front door with my belt. A. became exasperated with me.
Thankfully, M. materialized and I was able to play show and tell. I had brought my digicam, so we went over my latest series of fairly rough photos. The headshots are pretty good, the nudes are all crap. We also discussed my masturbation story, which I had sent to her roughly a week ago. It apparently turned her on, which overjoyed me. She then expressed surprise that a story about me masturbating would turn her on, which offended me greatly. I am still dissatisfied with her explanation.
The rest of the evening largely collapsed in upon itself. In some sort of tribute to an Eighties sitcom, the small gathering turned into a bit of a party as people told friends who told other friends and showed up en masse expecting decadent levels of drug consumption. Instead, a single round of Absinthe made it into the hands of maybe 5 people. To satisfy my burning curiosity, I took a taste of someone else's. I would equate the flavor to black licorice mixed with battery acid. DVDs were brought followed by a brief amount of confusion and bitterness that A. does not own a DVD player. There were also demands of "why are we watching this?" from various elements incapable of appreciating the lessons Yellow Submarine has to teach us all.
I did manage to take a few notes for my future Boy Bünd screenplay. But for the most part, I spent the evening in the backyard, eventually a gathering place for all four members of the band (A. conceded the rest of the house to his guests). And, just to rub salt in my wounds, I was trapped at the party far longer than was desirable because H. had parked me into his driveway just before leaving with his girlfriend to attend another gathering. Rifling through his drawers, I found a backup pair of car keys and attempted to move his car. There is, however, some peculiarity of the placement of reverse on a VW Golf, which necessitated the eliciting of V.'s help. So, in the end, I, the sober one, had to allow a man bombed out of his gourd on Absinthe, beer, hash, pot, and God knows what else, to back out H.'s car for me.
I was somewhat humiliated, but I felt a little better when it took V. ten minutes to figure out how to switch the headlights off.