This may or may not come off as a coherent entry, because I may or may not be super-dee-duper hungover. So hungover, to be true, that after going out to Grandma Sally's for some serious corned beef hash and blueberry pancakes, I drove by an Arby's and decided that the most important thing in my life was a big beef and cheddar. I sat in the drive-thru for two minutes before I remembered not only that I am broke, but I'd polished off a massive late-afternoon breakfast not fifteen minutes earlier.
Last night was Slinger's 30th birthday. Ideally, right now I would burst into catchy Cat Ballou ballad, one where Nat King Cole and I would saddle up into cowboy gear and pluck our banjos while harmonizing about things of drunken legend. Because I love that fucking movie, and I've had it on my brain ever since I watched My Name Is Bruce last Sunday. Twice. So basically, instead of writing about getting drunk and being all around awesome, I think I'm going to watch Cat Ballou.
But I have to say, that Ang and Dainon are my favorite people for letting us destroy their house. It's all cut up into this kitschy swinging ridiculous 1970's bachelor pad, which is odd for a married couple, full of red and leopard print and a fully stocked bar in their basement with more full bottles of booze than half the bars I've hit. But my love didn't escalate just because Dainon played barkeep while he dished out shots and beer.
It was because at six in the morning, Ang busted out a big vat of cooking oil and fried the shit out of everything in her freezer.
I struggled into the kitchen, because when you've been drinking for ten hours, life is a struggle. Ang was standing over the stove, dropping little frozen bits of heaven into the pot of oil. "Wait...are you...are you actually frying things? Not just baking them in the oven and hoping they're not soggy and bullshit?"
"Ross, what the fuck kind of black woman would I be if I didn't force feed ya'll some fried chicken?"
"I do not want to answer that because it confuses me," I had to lean on the counter for support, "but you are the most amazing human on the planet if you're seriously deep frying those jalapeno poppers right now."
"Girl, you know I take care of you."
"You blow my mind. I doan even know how you can fuckin use a stove."
"Here, honey, have some pizza puffs," she pointed toward a basket full of fried goodness. "And there's ranch dressing over there."
I did exactly as I was told, and started struggling away.
"Ross, don't forget your beer."
I looked at her with as much puppy as I could muster. "I wish I was a lesbian and you were my wifey."