This morning at 6:20a, 14:20-ish who knows where.

Gary peed into a cup, then added red bull and vodkie.  Vodka.  Wodka.  He then handed that to a guy to give to another guy, who proceeded to drink it.  The moral of this story: never piss off an Irishman.

I am not Irish, and I'll never claim to be.

I was on my way to work one morning when a Camaro with deep Texas mullets at the wheel pulled up next to me.  My usual blissfully ignorant self, I didnlt notice they were signalling left in a right-turn-only lane.  He meant to leap ahead of me.

But when the light turns green I go.  Quick-like.  And he had to pull in behind me and make a lot of horn honking, engine revving noises.

He pulled up to my left at the next light.  for you UKians, that's where we keep our steering wheels, the left hand side like God intended.  Anyhow, he pulls up, his passenger rolls down the winder, and I look over.  The passenger, he flips me off, then the winder rolls back up.  When the light turns green, I take off like you read about.  Shift into second hard, tires chirp.  Into third.  Third. Where's fucking third?  I jam it into gear, third's been giving me problems.  And ya know what?

I'm in first.

Jogging the Blues.

Headed down 2nd, leaving Fado for work.  I had a pub breakfast: beans, eggs, sausage (four types, incl black sausage) and grilled ham, plus some cheap wheat bread.  I also had four or five or so Guiness.  So I'm heading to work hours later, and I'm on 2nd.  A woman is jogging, and she looks like my friend Mary, except her hair is super short and bright yellow down the middle, dark on either side, but it's all sort of sweated down onto her head.  She's jacked into her iPod, she's in tight-fitting jogging things.  She looks over at me.  I'm sort of staring, slightly off kilter.

She laughed and started off again.  I was singing along to Manu Chao at the top of my lungs.  It's been a very good morning.

This morning at 6:11a