Because at this stage in my life I need an excuse to write, I am participating in National Blog Posting Month, or NaBloPoMo for short. Notice the subtle placement of PoMo in the title. I just couldn’t resist. Basically it's a post-a-day for a month. Four days behind already. GD it!
Last night, KateSpace urged me to enter into this writing regimen, because, well, she was. And because she was, I should. This conversation occurred at a potluck dinner party hosted by my roommates and I. While double-fisting Christmas Ale and gyros, Kate and I talked about how we needed to blog more. The Potluck greatly appreciated the reveler who provided the lamb carcass and rotisserie spit upon which to roast it. I also appreciated the minority of vegetarians (they’re always in the minority, aren’t they) and one Vegan who brought assorted veggies, like tomatoes and onions for said gyros. My contribution to the gyro feast, naturally, was the flat bread, which was, naturally, from the Superfresh. I can never pat myself on the back too hard.
The party hit an awkward patch when Mike Sokol, reveler of revelers, showed up with a live lamb because he wanted his gyros to be fresh(est). The vegetarians gasped. The Vegan fainted facefirst into the hummos. Celery went everywhere. After some coaxing (mainly by the lamb herself), Mike Sokol wavered in his resolve for the FRESHEST GYROS EVER and opted instead to drink his potluck dinner. 13 or so Christmas Ales later, Mike Sokol was still murdering everyone at Wii Tennis and the Vegan left with a new pet (the lamb, not Mike Sokol).
At one point, I pulled a groin lunging for one of Mike’s elusive cross-court returns. My foot slid into some spilled baba and down I went, Wiimote breaking free from my clammy grasp and sailing fortuitously into a marshmallow pyramid someone had erected.
My evening was fueled as much by gyros as it was by White Russians and Christmas Ales. By four in the morning (actually it was probably three, because we rotated back to EST), I was limping/stumbling down Derbyshire with someone who had decided to park a mile or two away. Genteelman that I am, I wanted to make sure the lady made it back to her car okay.
Maybe it was the Ales or the crisp November air or that feeling you get when you gain an hour in the middle of the night -- the lapse when you feel like nothing really counts, you lose yourself, all bets are off, the earth stops turning, etc, etc -- that made me start bitching about the corporate machine. I would imagine my comments were fairly off-putting. My argument was that working for corporate USA was negating my education as an English major. I said that I was losing my prowess with the metaphor. And it was all because of the corporation -- a huge fat guy that you just keep feeding more and more and more and more and more. Never full. Never ever ever full. More and more and more and more and m
Later, I woke up on the stoop of my apartment will all the symptoms of EST lag. The front pocket had been torn from my thrifted Dockers shirt. I chipped something crusty (blood? baba?) from the corner of my mouth. One sock was missing. I had no idea how I got there.