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3-13-03 // 8.22 pm "they are fucking loaded" Erin is watching "Will and Grace", I'm sitting here reading one of the several copies of the NME that we brought back from World News the other day. Ah, the NME. The joy of an English weekly mag is that it's even more gossipy than a monthly. And the NME always seems to take special care to hype bands that don't even have a single out, or whose album is only out on import. Collectively, it's such a pretentious publication, but I can't help but adore it, you know? We're hanging out tonight and warming up for the impending St. Patrick's Day. We had dinner at an Irish pub in Soulard. Pints of Guinness for me (of course), and corned beef/cabbage and fish & chips. I have deep respect for a restaurant that does a good fish & chips dinner, it's one of my all time favorite meals. It's a very easy thing to do badly -- the fish can be far too greasy, the chips can be thin and American style. But yeah...fish & chips. Rock on. [Erin says "tell diaryland hello! Hurricanes taste like kool-aid, and oranges are yummy."] But yes, I bought the crate of Guinness, and this Thursday night has been designated as the trial run for the coming Monday. The funny thing is that I'm not Irish. Not even a trace of it, I have third generation Polish blood in my veins. Though I suppose the two cultures do share a common cabbage-based bond, so yeah... It's beginning to feel like our house"guest" will never ever leave. Seriously. At this point he doesn't know if he's getting transferred to Dexter or not. And of course, the longer it takes for his company to tell him where he's going, the longer it'll be before he has a place one way or the other. And I realize I'm being whiny and everything, but still, come on. I want my privacy back -- our privacy. I want his junk out of our study, I want to be rid of his rude ass. Grrrr. The next door neighbors are playing some sort of slow R&B jam. It's like living down the hall from a VH1 channel. Hrm, now it's stopped. Oh well. Ah, looks like it's time to go off in search of cheese and onion Pringles and another pint. May the luck of the Irish be with you. Or, at the very least, the luck of the Notre Dame Fighting Irish.
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