But then it ended hanging out with Lady Sovereign in front of the Annex.
My life confuses even me. Today I formatted Excel files for a good five hours and anticipate heading up to my family's house tonight in order to do free laundry. If today is to be cut from yesterday's cloth, I'll go to bed only after Brad gets a flat on the Bronx River Parkway and Lionel Richie helps us put on the donut.
The S-O-VeeeEEEE!, by the way, is adorable. I have no idea how old she actually is, but she comes across like the hyperactive eleven year old daughter of Mel C. and the Artful Dodger. Download the crap out of her stuff on iTunes, or order it on Amazon.co.uk. You'll like her, and besides, she's my close personal friend.
Lady Sovereign was flustered because word had gotten around she was going to do an impromptu performance last night. This was news to her. The performance that was not to be was the reason I went out last night, though, and the reason Brad and I stuck around for as long as we did. We killed time waiting for her to (never) take the stage by playing a variation of that "I'm going to a picnic and I'm going to bring..." alphabet/memory game. The first person names something they're going to bring that begins with the letter A, then the next person has to recite that item and add something to the list that starts with a B. The other person recites the list and adds a C, and so on until someone forgets an item, or you get to Z and you're still bored.
Here's where I win, because I still remember the whole list the next morning.
"I'm going to my Grandmothers funeral," as our game went, "and I'm going to bring an anaconda, John Belushi, some cards, Dick Van Dyke, an elf, fudge, my gyno, a helicopter, an idiot, a Juggalo, K-Y, limonada, Cindy Margolis, neopolitan ice cream, an opossum, the Pope, Queer Duck, Rage Against the Machine, Lady Sovereign, Trent Vanegas, my udders, Vagisil, a white rapper, XTC, your mom, and a zulu warrior."
That's right. When Lady Sovereign is hanging around in a booth fifteen feet away, and various cute members of various hip bands are walking around with their bangs all in their eyes and their pants all tight, I am squinching up my face trying to remember whether or not I'm bringing Vagisil to my grandmother's funeral.
Oh well. At least my grandmother's fake funeral will be a bitchin' (and spring fresh...?) affair.