"the U.N. of Poonani"

It would've been different if someone had knocked him sideways, but it never happened. So he just kept on predicting and winning, predicting and winning, predicting and winning. After a while it was like Candide: he didn't think anything could go wrong in this, the best possible of all worlds.
--Dr. Ferdie Pacheco about Muhammed Ali's rise to stardom

GuhyeeOD DAMN.

I have literally never lived in a day in my life where I've had this much fun before 6. I may've literally never had a day this fun ever.

Hitting all colors for the pussy cycle will do that to a brother.

So let's do what I always say to do: begin with the beginning, go through the middle, and eventually reach the end.

Aaron & I hit PB today to look for a place to rent for our summer vacation. Living the dream of beach bums: balcony, deck facing the ocean, wild parties, bikinis, waking up at 2 and sleeping at 5, the whole megillah. The boardwalk was just up and down with places to rent so we went up and down it. (The best one looked like Tony Montana's summer home, with a spiral staircase in lieu of an elevator. And FOUR fireplaces for an outside loft visible from the boardwalk. Pics next time.)

We get the thumbs up from this cute blonde at a bistro at the northern most end (started at the south and went up), but it doesn't go anywhere because we then spend the rest of the time playing "Mr. Jones" off each other--she's looking at you? I don't think so, she looking at me.

After checking out all there is to check out, we go to Hooters.

And life as I know it ends.

There's a 22-year-old Latina Hooters waitress.

And she has a twin sister.

And they're working at the same time.

Brenda and Glenda. Glenda and Brenda. I literally do not remember a thing about today before Brenda and Glenda, and as such have logically come to the conclusion that everything about today BB&G is pointless unnecessary white noise. We ask Brenda (maybe Glenda? Doesn't matter, the fact the question alone has to be asked does) what was up with the thumbs up and she doesn't know because she usually smiles at guys when she's into guys. And then, the best throwaway sentence ever.

"It might've just been because she saw two good-looking guys."

The rest of my body has since filed for federal aid, as the ego tsunami has left them in ruins.

Maybe it was because I matched the retro Warriors hat with the neoretro J-Rich jersey today?

So anyway, more remarkable than that is the fact I order a Philly cheesesteak and don't finish it. It's like the moon colliding into the ocean. There are just certain things one takes for granted: the President's a moron, you don't tug on Superman's cape, the sun sets in the West, I finish meals. It wasn't even a BIG cheesesteak! I was just knocked-on-my-ass floored. Aaron & I come to the conclusion that this is why the terrorists hate us. Don't hate the playas, Muhammed, hate the game!

It is quickly decided to take the 5000+spin, and keep going and spit in the Whammy's face. We should get a picture. Aaron is lucky enough to have a cameraphone; I'm waiting out my contract for the free three-digit upgrade from V-Dub. We get them together for the picture (Aaron gets dibs, it's his technology allowing us to do this) and I suddenly for the first time in 90 minutes get a rush of blood to the head.

UPPER level.

I simply take a picture. But then suddenly, complaints. I didn't count to three first. So it's do-over time. This time I count it off.

Ladies and gentlemen, that's friendship.

As we get them to switch from him to me and we check the picture, Aaron is stunned at the easy brilliance of the plan. Extra picture, extra face time. An honest looking mistake, but so simple, so devious, and you get both pictures. They're back, and I get in the middle. It's all smile.

We stumble out into the day, dazed and confused by the waterfall of awesome luck we just passed under. It's dueling Admiral James Stockdale impersonations as we head back down the beach. Did that actually just happen? To a couple shlubs like US?! We're HOT?! I pass off what's left of the sandwich to a homeless guy in lieu of money without blinking. I suspected in my more egomaniacal moments, but getting outside confirmation from a reliable source...

"...the guy with the Warriors gear on, he's a 9."

Suddenly I get jolted back into the here and now by a bunch of cute white girls sitting on a deck at one of the aforementioned beach-houses has a masterstroke that will absolutely be stolen by us: they have a whiteboard and are ranking guys off as they pass. My ego, already severly inflated, starts heading to the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade for the head spot in line.

It's really a beautiful day, the day you brag to those back east about: about 60, slight breeze but nothing too bad (thus the throwback), people having fun, people drinking it up, people blasting Biggie out on the block like it's Fulton in the BK, the sun setting...

...people playing Al Green's "Belle" out on the street.

In proper accordance with the day right across from us is a pack of hot sistas who I do a little back-and-forth with. Al Green, bitches. It IS Sunday, after all.

I'm still not entirely sure that happened. I keep looking over my back for wings.

Anyway, Saturday better get in the weight room, drink some eggs, do somethin', 'cause it's going to have a motherfuck of a time beating today.

(And yes, once we get the beachhouse, there's two names already marked off for the christening party...)

How apropo...

Ambient music: Jay-Z & the Roots - Big Pimpin' (unplugged)