My liver and I are spending the coming weekend helping revitalize New Orleans' economy. My boy Utkarsh (of Dutch/Inuit descent, as you can tell by the name) is shuffling off the bachelor-coil and hitching his wagon to a woman who deserves better (kidding, man!) I have been told on multiple occasions by Oodgie that "you're not allowed to go out with him anymore" because he has a certain reputation. But he single-handedly bailed me out for my bachelor party many years ago, so the least I can do is return the favor. It would be rude not to, right?
Aside from reconnecting with my less law-abiding youth, I'm psyched to catch up with some good buddies I never get to see (how apropos). My handsome, successful, single pal Dave is flying in from San Fransisco (that one is going out to all the ladies out there) while two spoken-for but rarely seen buddies, Tom and Brett, are making the trip as well. I sense impending danger, as more than a few participants have expressed the urge to see what the legal definition of "public indecency" is.
Remember when you were a kid you thought that teachers and doctors and business people were all big, serious grown-ups? Do you ever look at your friends now and think, "geez, if this is what we're like, I wonder if my dentist/school counselor/next door neighbor was a gutter hugger?"
Anyway, I'm sad to be leaving Oodgie and Cheeky to fend
with each other for themselves for three days, but I know this is the right thing to do. For Utkarsh. For America.
Plus I've got to know....do I still got it? I'll let you know Monday. Or maybe Wednesday...
Quick work-out update: Every Tuesday I play an ancient sport called racquetball (rkt-bôl) practiced by the ancient Hittites and Sumerians during the Rubik era. It burns about a ba-billion calories per hour, and thank god I played tonight because I've spent the last few days working my way through a wheel of aged gouda. That counts as two days in a row, and if my heart will stop racing like a hummingbird on crack I'll try to make it three...