2001-07-24

No excuses

My left wrist smells like rubber.

I can explain.

I have an elastic band around there; I give it a snap every time I think ugly things about my work environment. Positive thinking and creative visualization weren't doing a damn thing; now I'm trying pain. By God, I'm going to be a happy camper if it kills me...

Anyway.

Last night Ad, the houseboy, Linda, Calvin and I met up for beers at the Irish Embassy prior to heading over to visit our pal Mikey.

(Whew! How's that for gratuitous linkage?)

Since I am the biggest pop culture whore I know, the conversation naturally got steered into one of my personal favorite territories, that of *NSync.

I love them. I do. I think they're just the greatest.

So I'm sitting there, beer in hand, effusing over them with the breathless enthusiasm of a 12-year-old: "So, Chris, he's the oldest one -- although I have my doubts about Joey -- I think...and I've given the matter considerable thought, believe you me...that Chris is the heir apparent to Davy Jones. I really do. So J.C.'s the hunky one..."

"Isn't he the one that went into rehab?"

"NO! That's A.J. from the Backstreet Boys. Duh."

"Sorry..."

"Lees? How old is your niece?"

"Monica? She's four."

"So, what exactly is your excuse for knowing all of this?"

"Um."

lisamcc at 5:35 p.m.

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