Saturday, July 4, 2009

The good times are killing me.

When I walked up to the place there were cop cars and officers walking around, I thought for sure the infamous WM was dead. My stomach was in knots. I knew that I would be implicated by my Twitter update. Curse you, technology, how will I ever become a politician if I've got a skeleton in the bar bathroom my closet. But there was no police tape. Nobody stopped me as I walked anxiously up to the side entrance. I went and cleaned stuff up a little before checking on the bathroom. If there is going to be a scandal, I couldn't have anybody saying the place was a mess. When I did go over I saw that the light was on and the door was leaned against the adjacent wall. No body.

Either they clean up crime scenes really fast around here or my worst fears were not coming true. Considering the quality of our police force, I'm going with the latter.

The pins for the hinges were on the bar along with the knife, the spoon, and the drink strainer. Hardrock Sam was not at his usual post, instead up against the side wall. There were firecrackers on one of the stools. Otherwise the place looked surprisingly together. I mean, aside from the door to the men's bathroom being off the hinges.

The rest, it's hard to say: I watched fireworks on the lower docks with Mr. E, drank copious amounts of alcohol, danced to Wisconsin Slim's last performance ever (never say never), drank more alcohol, visited most of the bars at least briefly, and hopefully kept at least a shred of dignity because this won't be the last Independence Day celebration I attend in this town and I'll need some remaining to lose later. It's budgeting one's dignity. I've never been good with budgeting.

Wish I could say that last night was the only night I was tearin' it up downtown. It wasn't. Thursday too. I got a call from Miss K inviting me to join her and the ladies out. It was all a deliciously lovely downhill slide from there. Up until waking up in my bed fully clothed but smelling like booze and puke. I think I took a shot of J├Ągermeister with Mr. C. He tells me we also made out. Mr. C is gay. Very gay. It probably doesn't count, then. It also doesn't count if I don't remember it, right?

Oh, that shred of dignity I was saving for later? I think that was it being publicly shed via blog.

I'd like to say that I've learned a valuable lesson about binge drinking, responsibility, and the like. I think you'd call me out on that being a big fat lie. Kind of like when I declared that I'd never drink again. A BIG FAT LIE.

In positive news, Miss P and I made up and someone gets back to town very soon. And I'm still alive. And so is the infamous WM.

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