I was doing a Thursday night gig with the Hawk at the Irish pub down in Buckhead. Shamus’ gig across the street was so dead that he closed up early and came over to play with us. I was standing to the left of the stage with a speaker very close to my head.

This quickly because a problem because Shamus is a seriously loud motherfucker. He plugged in and launched into a version of “What if god was one of us” that would have made God wish he were not only not one of us, but across town somewhere enjoying a pair of earmuffs and a nice glass of milk.

There was a dirty broad hanging about looking for takers, but she had so far found none in the band. The Hawk’s got a nice girl, and I’ve been seeing someone special lately, so neither of us were in the market for dirty broads. Shamus just broke up with his girl, though, so he was chatting it up with her after we knocked off for the night.

The problem was that she was clearly a basket case, and built like a cement truck to boot. I stood behind her where she couldn’t see me and mouthed the word “NO” over and over again at Shamus. He ignored me. I packed up my crap.

Eventually he came over to pack his shit up.

“Whatever,” he said, “I’m a dirty man, what do you expect?”

“Shamus, you’re a young man. Don’t do it.” I said, borrowing a line from Saving Private Ryan.

He paid me no mind and went right back to chatting her up. Honestly, it’s not that bad a deal since he’s been pretty down as a result of his recent breakup. His depression has, in fact, earned him the nickname of The Sobbing Beard due to his recent tendancy to break down and weep about the whole affair and his trademark facial hair. Of course, we’ve all been there, and of course it’s sad, but still. Sobbing and wailing and beards just don’t go together.

I had a good time telling Walt about him taking that girl home. I described her to him as a bearilla, a cross between a bear and a gorilla, but razzing him about it is less fun since he has no shame whatsoever.

“I did it and I liked it!” he exclaimed the next night.

Well, right on fella.

I was out the other night with my lady friend watching a few of my buddies play a gig at a local establishment when McLemore, the bass player, decided he needed a piss. So, he held up his bass to indicate I should come up and play it while he peed. I went up and put it on.

There was a girl in the audience there who had been under some scrutiny by the fellas over whether or not she would show her breasts to the band. Naturally, I looked over to see if she would, an action not missed by my astute lady friend.

Now, my lady friend is not the jealous sort, but I got the distinct impression that she wondered why I would want to see this woman’s breasts when I could see hers when we get home, and let me just tell you, hers are fantastic. She didn’t ask me why, mind you, I just got a hunch that she wondered, and so, I’m going to explain it as best I can.

Listen up girls, another Hodgson Brand(tm) gem of insight into the male mind coming at you.

Now, when each little boy is born, there is a vast array of counters which closely resemble a car’s odometer (that’s the mile-counter thingy, girls) totalling in his head the number of times he has achieved any given sexual milestone. These numbers are filed away for later comparison with his friend’s numbers, real or perceived, and used to calculate how his approach to the ladies is faring. Seeing naked breasts has its own little counter.

So you see, I am merely a slave to my Boob-O-Meter. If naked boobs are on display, I quite simply must look, or miss my numbers for the quarter, and by God, I don’t miss my numbers.

Walter and I were at the pizza place with the humorless girl at the counter.

Now, I sort of pride myself on being able to make pretty much anyone laugh, so this girl is a bit of a conundrum in that I have never been able to get a smile out of her. I explained the whole thing to Walter.

“I know how you can get her to laugh,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Ask her out.”

Fuckface.

I told her the bear joke and she giggled a little bit, but still not a good laugh. I guess some people just aren’t mean to laugh it up.

Poor fuckers.

Walter and I were hanging out at the Irish pub having a few drinks and watching some friends play their gig. I was getting pretty close to drunk after a number of beers and assorted shots of Jager.

Some girls next to us told me I looked like their friend Bill and wanted to know if I would come to their party on Saturday, but I told them I had plans. I resisted the urge to say “Besides, I know Bill and he’s an asshole.”

“Don’t look now,” Walter said, leaning over, “But there’s a fat man in the other room.”

He was right, there was.

Another Thursday went by pleasantly, and I have no reason to believe that there won’t be many more like it to come.

My brother in law is kind of like a bike riding genius.

He can do Jackie Chan shit on a bike, like hop onto a rock and stop with his front tire in the air, then hop around in a circle, hit the front tire, then ride out. It’s crazy to watch him.

I actually saw him jump straight up in the air standing still and whip the bike around in a full 360 in the air. I don’t mean a tailwhip, I mean he turned himself and the bike all the way around.

When I see someone do that I think to myself, jeez I should have learned to do something cool like that when I was younger. I should have gotten myself a hobby instead of playing the damn guitar all the time, like kung fu maybe. I sure do dig kung fu movies.

But then, learning to play guitar takes as much time and practice, if not as much physical effort, so I guess I kinda do have a thing like that.

I can also dance, write, and make up dirty lyrics to any song on the spot. I’m sort of a perverted Da Vinci meets Wierd Al Yankovic.