it's my party, and i'll wear pants if i want to (i do not).

today is NoPantsDay, everyone. the mandate for observance is, you know, kind of obvious. but should you require context, go here.


am sitting here alone on saturday evening, jittering happily in anticipation of tomorrow’s sonics vs. spurs: game 1. the supers have been ever-so fun to watch. one week ago, ray allen was awfully retarded; was awful in his retardation. his shotclock-beating, game-settling, off-balance-fadeaway-rainbow 3-pointer with a minute remaining was called by announcer kevin calabro as well as a shot can be called: they give it to the man; he drifts right and lets it fly … boom! goes the dynamite!

tuesday’s series-ending game was extra fun cos i watched the game from a stool at bishop's – the one bar on vashon island with tvs. lynnette and i tromped over to vushina that afternoon for reasons that are still unclear; either we want to move there together or we want to pretend want to move there. running around was super fun, though; and at bishop’s the trailer boys were out in force to watch the game and drink and hollah. when i went in to the men's room, a guy (big, excessively hairy, mullet-possessing) came in to use urinal next to mine, and another dude walked in to use the stall. their exchange is as follows.

"Wassup!!"
"Drainin' the spices, alright!"
"Whooooooo-oooop!!"

and, you know : Draining the Spices? yeah. that's what he said. who would've thought that the bishop's men’s room would provide my favorite mixed metaphor. of all time. not me. but damned if i’m not excited for the series.