Mister Understood

I don’t mean to speak  insultingly of the diary blog, but rather understand that my existence is quite less literarily engaging than most. As an attempt to emulate my favorite author of this form, Noah, of boating fame (not arc), I will enter into the annals of banal digital this chunk of forced prose. Hopefully some fun wit might result or at least some decent photo punchlines. No more rhyming, I promise–slant or not.

I was lucky enough to have been visited for the past few days by a good friend of mine (and boating Noah’s (arcing Noah too, I think Catholics still dig on the old testament)), Michael Crowe.

Among all the others

Reasonable apprehension was only slightly justified, stemming from the fact that Mike and I have never spent a second of time alone together and both his and my main social activity happens to be brutally making fun of those closest to us. Fortunately, we could improvise and in the end realized that we don’t have to see our friends in front of us to make fun of them. Kathleen took a few for the team, too. That’s my wife.

What is this? A 1976 vintage? From the Basque?

We did the usual LA thing, if your usual LA thing entails running around to the Hollywood tourist stops with a practically stolen baby and seeing drunk Jimmy Kimmel wipe out during a taping.

Not to note it as an event but simply to warn: If you get a morbidly obese waitress at Canter’s Famous Deli, don’t forget to ask for water, because if you do, your guilt will prevent you from asking ex post facto and soon you’ll be morbidly dehydrated. Also, don’t ask for your wife’s soup before your wife arrives, lest you’ll be viciously berated. By a morbidly obese waitress. While you’re thirsting years off of your life.

That's the samwich, not the waitress

But seriously, she was lovely. There comes that guilt again. Dang, I’m thirsty.

All in all, we had some good times, a few laughs, and sent Mike on his merry way to Denver on time and everything. My only regret is that Mike didn’t contract Staph from our Venice Boulevard bus ride–then he’d give LA some damn street cred. At least his toe bled later from walking too much in his leather flip-flops.

Next visit though, I’ll be sure to make our agenda line up with the man who once said this to me at the laundromat:

Man! It’s really 3 O’Clock!?
(Me: Yes.)
Man, time FLIES when you’re asleep!

(He had been very much awake for the past hour that we’d been doing laundry together.)

But it really does, though.