Mission Semi-Impossible: Day Six: Subpar Weekend Edition

Words: 321
Feelings: Hungoverness

Sins: Avarice, baby. Nothing but Avarice.

Fears: Rats, Drowning, Mad Cows, The Unbearable Lightness of Being Unproductive

Thoughts: There comes a time, friends, when you need to let your hair down and cut loose, relax, open up the throttle, cut the rug, live the vida loca. And as I sat making terribleness on the page, I realized something: I needed a break. I needed to do something else. I was making myself crazy. Not mad, like the cows, but crazy, like the glue. I mean, for God sake's man, I was quoting Clueless. So I went to my dad to see what we could do. After all, it is SoCal. Unfortunately, my father wasn't interested in partying like it was 1999, let alone 2007.
"What do you mean, do something?" he asked, when I offered up the possibility that we should do something that night.
"I dunno," I said, because the truth was, all I could think to say was drink and that is an unacceptable thing to admit to someone who spanked you.
"Well, I'm going to do something," he said. "I'm going to get ready for dinner, eat dinner, then read my (obscure Scottish Author Mystery Novel) and go to bed." Not exactly the bacchanal I was hoping for.

But he did have to eat dinner with me. And it remains quite acceptable to drink at dinner. So drink I did, friends, to the tune of two Johnnie Walker Black's on the rocks, and some sort of after-dinner-drink which tasted like raisins, as my father and one of his friends sat recalling movies that they liked, none of which happened post 1980 rendering me incapable of chiming in. My dad, I found out, is a rather large Steve McQueen fan and like movies with "rebels" going "against the grain".

"Kind of like Omarion's character in You Got Served?" I asked, then laughed hysterically at my own joke. There was a lengthy pause.
"Is that a movie?" my dad's friend asked, finally, after some uncomfortable throat-clearing.
My dad motioned for the waiter to bring the check.

Anyway, post dinner, I may or may not have had one more cocktail and several frosted animal cookies my 18 year old brother had purchased months earlier, when my dad made the mistake of letting him go grocery shopping. Then, with nothing else to do, I spent a half hour fiddling with my story and wrote a 321 word dialogue about naming old Major League Baseball players based on the Nintendo Game RBI Baseball and passed out in style, with my head resting on my nightstand.

But despite this break, I remain confident that my productivity will increase steeply over the final week and I will go down in a blaze of written glory. I know this. And like G.I. Joe says, knowing, friends, is half the battle.

I'm The One Who Wants to Be With You,

Mr.,
Big

PS- Pictured Below: Sgt. Slaughter right before his tryout for the Village People, the poster of Steve McQueen I've pre-ordered for Father's Day and the video game that helped make my cholesterol spike to 211 as an inactive 9 year old.