Last night me and CrazyLiz had an impromptu party on our porch, which began with a case of beer and heckling an endless stream of angry drivers who failed to parallel-ically squeeze their way into a iddy biddy rock star parking spot across the street, and ended with me passing out on my laptop.
The person who finally did get her car in that spot is the masterful Brenda, an Irish aviation engineer who lives in the basement. She's got this beautiful harlequin Great Dane named Seamus, and she's going to let me take him for walks. We applauded her parking job voraciously and tricked her into hanging out with us, and she got fuckin' durnk (which is a new word I just made up, just now, for 'drunk.' This is because I am creative, and not because I'm bad at typing) and made cat-calls at every single bike that cruised down the street.
After awhile Al roared up to the building on his motorcycle, and we shanghaied him for porch-drinking. Al is Brenda's younger brother. Lives on the third floor. That apartment up there goes through tenants like prune juice through a human centipede (I am a visual writer, if anything). Anyway, Al is the landlord (the Brenda/Al family owns the building), or at least he has been ever since Doug moved down south. I miss Doug. Kind of. Al is a better landlord, but Doug let me scam on his internet and he was in a band called DOUGOUT! and used to practice his keyboards really loud. And then he'd stuff fliers for shows under our door, and MoLinder would get all pissy because she slept directly beneath his "music" room. Now we have Al (Brenda calls him Alfie, it's friggin adorable), the Irish Chicago cop with a dog that looks like my tattoo
Oh, and Al is fucking hot.
According to Christy and Chad, who live across the hall from him and who were also hanging out on the porch with us last night, he has a plethora of lady-friends who frequently come a-callin'. And, psssst: they do it on his porch. OMG I KNOW HILARE.
It really didn't take much pleading to get these people to pile onto the porch, just some beer and an ashtray and a smile. I'm betting Al uses a similar system to lure his lady-friends, but they make the sex and I make bad jokes. Neither of us, however, end up wearing pants.
Next time we all have an impromptu party, though, I will be wearing real pants, and not boxers covered in polar bears. I promised.
We tried to get Upstairs Steve to hang out, but last time I made Upstairs Steve join me on the porch it was seven in the morning and I was still drinking from the night before and I gave him personality quizzes for like an hour. He thinks I'm odd. His power animal is the penguin.
So I'm hungover right now. Lame.