Pumpqueens: Update!

I just had lunch with my pumpkin pal, and she had this to show me: (that's her elbow)
Apparently, after "Poop" and I put her into a cab to drive her six blocks home, she fell out of the cab onto the sidewalk in front of her house. Normally, you'd just dust yourself off and head inside feeling a little embarrassed, or laugh really loud to signal you're just fine. Not my friend - no way. She decided to lay on the sidewalk for a full minute soaking in what just happened, until someone walked up to her and said, "Are you ok?" to which she responded, "It's cool!" and then lit up a cigarette. Also, at some point a pint glass broke in her purse. Why was she carrying one, you may ask? Because we stole them - she stole two. She woke up the next day to find her cigarettes and lighter outside on her stoop.
However, this isn't the strangest discovery she's ever made the next day after some drinking, debauchery and general rabble rousing. One time, she fell in the hallway of her apartment building, came to on the floor who knows how much later, and crawled inside (the worst part was that her roommate heard her come crashing down and didn't go help/ask her about it until the next morning). The next day after that fall, she found a melted Chipwich outside her door.
I love you, buddy, and I'm glad you're ok.

Pumpqueens

Last night I had grand plans of going home, making a nutritious meal, going to the gym and watching the Vice Presidential debate. That all came off the rails rather quickly when I heard a bar in my neighborhood was serving not one, but two, kinds of pumpkin beer.

I LOVE the fall: the scarves, the flavors, the colors. (In fact, next weekend I'm going up to Vermont with some of my friends to take in all the fall glory; we rented a house and will wear sweaters, hike and apple pick. I can't wait.) So, my neighborhood fellow fall enthusiast and I decided to tour the flavors. We met up around 6:30 pm and I didn't get home until 3:45 this morning. It was a good night.

They ended up having three (!) different kinds of pumpkin beer. The first, Elysian Pumpkin, was pretty tasty but didn't really scream pumpkin deliciousness. The second one tasted like the brewer jammed his Thanksgiving table through a sieve and into a very festive bottle and named it Pumpking. King indeed. We raved about it so much, a married couple sitting next to us had to order it, too. Towards the end of the night, the bartender rolled out a new beer for us to try, the Smutty Nose Pumpkin Ale. I've had this before, and it's good, but nowhere near as good as our second beer as far as pumpkin-nicity goes. (Also, I may be in love with the bartender; every time he came to our side of the bar he called me "pumpkin" - that's all I want out of a relationship, really.)

We weren't planning on staying as long as we did, but with bellies full of pumpkin beer, we were having so much fun. And of course, they were setting up for karaoke. I know everyone says this, but I have the WORST singing voice. Really. Despite the handicap, my friend (who has a lovely singing voice) and I sang 9 to 5 by Dolly Parton, The Weight by The Band and I Love Rock and Roll by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts.

Prior to last night, I have only done karaoke four times. I've always been an enthusiast (in junior high I used to go with my friends to a local pizza place just to watch people sing karaoke, cool, right?) but now I might have to become a regular performer.

We met some fun people, I fell in love, I ran into someone I never thought I'd see again, I met a dog named Cupcake and have a new number programmed in my phone labeled as "Poop" - overall, it was a great night with one of my best friends.

It's SHOWTIME!

Last night I went to a newly-opened neighborhood bar that an acquaintance of mine just started bartending at. I met up with a friend of mine and her boyfriend at the back of the bar where they had free pool all night.

After bragging that my (now M.I.A.) uncle was ranked number 3 in the state of Florida, I promptly scratched every ball (TWSS) and failed to honor my name.

We kept trading off the table with a younger, neighborhood fellow (who some say looked like Jake Gyllenhaal) wearing a shirt that said, "Someone in Compton Loves Me" and an older gentleman who looked exactly like Martin Landau. (I couldn't remember his name at the time until I looked at my copy of Crimes and Misdemeanors at home. At the bar all I could think about was Walter Matthau). Martin Landau introduced himself as Jack. He seemed like a class act, a real prince - until the bar started giving out free kamikaze shots.

I'm not sure exactly what happened. Maybe it was the shot mixed with his chain smoking, the heat of the game, the mysterious wet spot on his T-shirt, wearing topsiders with no socks - I don't know. But, Jack lost it. He wanted to play teams, and he wanted me. Every shot he said, "It's showtime! SHOOTER!!" He played out of turn, he was solids AND stripes - he couldn't be stopped - until it was my turn to shoot. I scratched the ball AGAIN and he pounded his cue into the ground. Shooter was displeased. We lost the game to my friend and her boyfriend and then I overheard him telling the guy in the Compton shirt that it was my fault. "I woulda won if it wasn't for her."

After I left, apparently Shooter was accusing my bartender friend of stealing the money he was putting down on the bar. Even later, my friends went for a nightcap at a bar around the corner and Shooter was there still living it up. Shooter can't be slowed down, so don't even try.