Tag Archives: Drinking

My Gaydar is Broken

gaydar

I thought Dave wanted to be my friend.

Fine by me. I’m friendly and stuff, and pretty much everyone I know locally already had plans or couldn’t come out. Dave, sitting at the bar to my left, introduced me to Leslie, a woman 25 years my senior, sitting to my right. Dave and Leslie are both 60-ish and know each other.

Leslie’s a widow and she owns the bar across the street from the one where we were sitting.

We had lively conversations about local economic development projects and future plans and how those were impacting residents and local business owners.

We had lively conversations with others nearby. A pretty blonde who thought a little too highly of herself named Marisa suggested Dave should date her mom. A pretty brunette named Becca tends bar at another nearby place and she remembered my name but I didn’t remember hers.

Dave asked questions about what I did professionally. I work in the corporate office of a large company just outside of town. And me and two partners have a start-up agency that’s finally getting a little traction.

I handed over a card.

He asked whether I’d be interested in attending Chamber of Commerce networking events.

Sure, I said.

He said he’d be in touch about it.

Cool, I said.

We moved across the street to Leslie’s bar. More drinks. More fun. More laughs.

Everything seemed normal.

My house is pretty close, and I got home around 1 a.m. For venturing out alone on a Friday, which I rarely do, I’d had fun.

Dave sent me a text the following week asking whether I wanted to go to a business-networking event downtown.

I didn’t have plans. My son was at his mom’s. I like talking about my new business and passing out cards. And I like beer. Of course I wanted to go.

There’s a scenic riverfront pedestrian walkway where I live closed to traffic, and I met Dave at one of the local businesses there which was hosting the Chamber event. I had a few beers. Met economic development officials. Met business owners. Talked, as people do, about how our businesses might be able to help each other.

Yet another local bar/restaurant—the one where Becca, the pretty brunette works—was celebrating its two-year anniversary with outdoor live music, and food and drink specials. It was just a short two-minute walk away.

Do I want to go?, Dave asked, because some of his friends were down there.

Of course I do. The alternative is going home to hang out alone. I always choose fun and people over that.

Pints of beer kept flowing. I met two very nice elderly married couples who have been friends with Dave for as long as I’ve been alive. One was celebrating their 46th wedding anniversary. We had alcohol-infused conversations about marriage, and everyone got to hear the Cliff’s Notes version of what I’ve come to believe about why my marriage failed, and why I think many marriages fail.

The patio environment was festive. The live music was excellent. The laughs were plenty. The drinks were delicious.

The two couples took off around 9 p.m. and I agreed to have one more drink inside the bar with Dave before going home because I had housework to do.

I chatted with a pretty 48-year-old named Renee who looked much younger than she was, but is nonetheless a little too old for me.

When my glass was empty, it was time to go. I shook hands with Dave, thanked him for inviting me to the Chamber event and introducing me to his friends, and said I’d see him next time.

Sending Mixed Signals

I didn’t know it at the time, but sending the text was a mistake.

I finished my work, and it was just before 10, and being at the bar with people was so much more fun than being home alone.

“Yo. Are you still at the bar?” I texted to Dave.

“Yes,” he wrote back.

“Cool. I’m coming back. My chores didn’t take as long as I thought. Bars are more fun than my empty house. Be back in 10 minutes or so. That woman I was talking to. Her name is Renee. You should go talk to her and her friend.”

I got back to the bar when I said I would. The ladies had left. Dave and I had another drink while he gauged my interest in the Thursday Night Football game on TV. Denver was playing Kansas City.

I told him I’m a pretty big football fan, but that it doesn’t rule my life as much as it did 10 years ago. That marriage and having a son had changed my priorities, particularly after my individual interests started negatively affecting my marriage.

He asked whether I’d like to go check out another bar. One I said I’d never been to even though I’d lived in town close to 10 years.

Sure. I like new places.

It was an old townie bar with an old townie bartender named Lester.

But the beer was cheap, the football game was on, and the Thursday night regulars were friendly.

It was about 11:30 p.m. the first time it happened.

Everyone was laughing and having a good time, and after I made a joke that earned a few laughs, Dave, sitting to my left, took his index finger and forcefully drug it down the length of my forearm. Like, from my elbow to my wrist.

I didn’t react, because funny things happen when people are drinking and I generally try to be cool.

But then, a few minutes later, Dave did it again.

He took his index finger, and drug it down my arm in a way that couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than: “Surprise! I’m gay and trying to fuck you!”

Dave’s a nice guy. I like him. Being a dick didn’t feel like the right play. I calmly looked him in the eye with a look on my face that I thought clearly conveyed straightness, and said: “C’mon now, Dave.”

Not Come on, please do that again, big boy. More like Come the fuck on, dude. What have I done—EVER—to suggest that I’m either, A. gay, or B. want to have gay sex with you right now?

It was officially awkward. I sat there having a HOLY SHIT, I’ve been sitting with Keyser Soze this entire time moment, replaying the evening’s events in my head and realizing that Dave’s friends, the people he knew here in the townie bar, and Dave himself, probably thought we were on a date.

And that by texting him after I’d gotten home and coming back to hang out probably sent the most mixed of mixed signals, ever.

This isn’t the first time a gay man tried to sleep with me. But it was the first time I was completely blown away by how poorly I’d misjudged the situation.

I pride myself on my awareness and powers of observation. On my ability to communicate. And I feel strongly that my conversations about marriage, combined with my totally observable talks with the self-absorbed blonde, the name-remembering-savant bartender, and the eye-fucking 48-year-old conveyed an adequate amount of heterosexuality.

But, no.

Gay Dave was having none of it.

He did the weird finger rub down my arm a third time, and added his right shoe on top of my left shoe, and sort of pressing down and moving it back and forth as if I hadn’t already gotten the message.

I gave him another “Dave,” with a cut-that-shit-out-right-now,-please look.

I pointed to the clock: 11:53, and told him and townie bartender Lester it was time for me to go. I signed the bar tab. Thanked Dave again for the invitation, and went home, trying to figure out what I’d said or done over the course of two pretty long hangouts to give him the impression I was available for, or interested in, man love.

The following afternoon, he sent me a text apologizing for keeping me out late and being a negative influence on me, but not for the bizarre and unwelcome arm strokes and footsie maneuvers.

I didn’t know what to write back, so I never did.

And neither did he.

Seriously, I just thought Dave wanted to be my friend.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , ,

Hey! Stop “Bob Rodgersing” My Pregnant Wife!

old-guy-with-hand-down-large-womans-pants

A classic Bob Rodgersing. Here, this man is showing you a creative, one-handed variation of the Original.

Author’s Note: Sexual assault isn’t funny. And if Bob Rodgers were to ever “Bob Rodgers” the wrong person, he could conceivably get in sexual assault-ish legal trouble for doing so. I’m not a lawyer. But my friend is. And he just happened to be there the night Bob Rodgers “Bob Rodgersed” my pregnant wife, an event that forever changed our vocabulary, the types of photos we text or email one another, and turned a random guy’s name into a verb and a noun. The names in this post have been changed to protect the innocent. And the guilty.

I spent my high school years living on a quaint little street at the bottom of a steep hill with a cul-de-sac on both ends.

It was quiet other than the occasional train roaring by on some nearby tracks. My parents (my mom and stepdad) were conservative and fairly strict. Nothing wild EVER happened at that house.

So, when my wife and I rolled up to my old house where my stepdad lived alone less than a year after my mom left and filed for divorce, and about 10 years after I’d moved out, I almost shit myself.

Hip-hop music was BLARING from the garage via professional DJ equipment.

People were everywhere, laughing and having a good time.

Are we back in college?

This was a bona fide keg party my stepdad (who I met on my 5th birthday) was throwing while trying to reclaim his life after the divorce.

Before long, I was drinking shots with friends and neighbors and relatives standing around the kitchen table where we prayed before every meal and where I’d never before drank alcohol.

I was bumming cigarettes to my uncle’s girlfriend who was trying to hide it from him.

I was laughing it up with friends and family all of who shared my awe of the surreal scene: What planet are we on right now? Can you believe this is happening here?

It was the second-most surreal and awesome thing that would happen that night.

One of the neighbors is a guy named Bob Rodgers. A guy in between my age and my parents’ age.

He was always nice to me.

“Hey Bob! Good to see you, sir! Want to drink a shot with us?”

Damn right, he did.

All night, we were filling up plastic cups from the kegs, and drinking occasional shots from my stepdad’s neglected liquor cabinet. This was a man that drank ONE light beer, once a month with dinner. Maybe.

It was a great party.

My lawyer friend isn’t just my lawyer friend. He’s my childhood best friend who happens to be an attorney also.

He and I were standing in the backyard admiring the sights and sounds of the summer-night party when my pregnant wife walked up to us.

“So, I don’t want to make a big deal out of this, but who’s that guy over there?” she said.

“That’s Bob Rodgers. He lives right over there. Why?” I said.

“He just totally put his hands down my pants,” she said.

I didn’t love when guys did that, but I was drinking a lot and am harder to upset under such conditions.

“What do you mean? Like the front? Like, he tried to touch you down there?”

“No. In the back. Between my jeans and underwear,” she said while sort of demonstrating how it went down.

My friend and I looked at each other, half-disturbed, half-amused. My top priority was making sure my wife wasn’t upset. She wasn’t, and we all started to lighten up.

“Wait. On top of your underwear? Like, he went for your ass, but checked himself before going full skin?”

“I guess.”

“He used both hands? God, his wife is standing right there! I wonder if she saw that. How far down did he go?” I said.

She showed us again. About down to where your thumb connects to your hand.

Maybe it was all the drinking. But things were getting funnier.

My uncle’s girlfriend came over to bum another covert cigarette.

I excused myself from the Bob Rodgers conversation and went to smoke with her. She leaned in close to my ear. “Do you know that guy over there?”

“Hell yeah, I do. That’s Bob Rodgers. He just stuck his hands down my wife’s pants!”

“No way!” she said. “That’s what I was going to tell you!”

“You saw him do it!? I totally missed it.”

“No, he did it to me too! Just now when I was over there. He pulled me in for a hug and put his hands down the back of my pants!” she said.

“This guy is unbelievable!” I said. “Important question that I’m sorry for asking: Did he put them between your pants and your underwear? I mean, did he stay above your underwear?”

“Yes. Exactly,” she said.

“Holy shit. Bob Rodgers is Bob Rodgersing everybody!”

I drug my uncle’s girlfriend over to where my wife and friends were standing. By now, more of them had been brought up to speed on the Bob Rodgers incident.

“Guys! Lisa got Bob Rodgersed, too!” I said, probably too excitedly.

Lisa and my wife compared notes and it became official: Getting “Bob Rodgersed” was now a Thing, and it had just happened to both of them.

We spent the rest of the night sharing the story with people and inventing new ways to Bob Rodgers someone. My lawyer friend’s wife’s cousin (seriously) lived down the street and she already knew about Bob Rodgers and his inappropriate groping.

This was apparently what he did all the time. He’d get super-wasted at bars or parties, then would Bob Rodgers (the verb) every woman he could. Then he’d pass out and have to be carried home.

The rumor was his wife knew about Bob Rodgers’ nasty habit of Bob Rodgersing everyone.

My stepdad was pissed when he found out my wife and at least one other borderline family member was groped by his drunk neighbor during his party. We assured him all was well, but that it might be wise to keep an eye out for this sort of thing in the future.

(I have a young sister. When she was still in high school, Bob Rodgers would make very Bob Rodgersy comments to her. He’s probably a ticking time bomb.)

How to Bob Rodgers Someone

This is a photo of Kendall Jenner getting Bob Rodgersed by sister Kylie.

This is a photo of Kendall Jenner getting Bob Rodgersed by sister Kylie.

As I do not, and will never, condone uninvited touching of other people, especially in areas covered by underwear, I want to clearly state in no uncertain terms that you should only be Bob Rodgersing people who you are allowed to Bob Rodgers (the verb).

That said, here are some basic Bob Rodgersing techniques you can use at home. (I apologize for the lack of illustrations with directional arrows.)

The Original Bob Rodgers

In a classic front-facing hugging position, stick both hands down the back of his/her pants, inside the pants, but outside the underwear.

The Reverse Bob Rodgers

Basically, this is your classic courtesy reach-around while standing behind him/her, except you must leave your hands atop his/her underwear.

The Double Bob Rodgers

Best accomplished from the side, the Double requires you to put one hand down the front and the other down the back (on top of the underwear!) simultaneously.

The Bent-Over One-Handed Bob Rodgers

This guy's almost got it right.

This guy’s almost got it right.

A common maneuver in Turkish oil wrestling, when he/she is on hands and knees, you put one hand down the back of the pants. Counting to 10 is optional.

The Double Reverse with a Twist Bob Rodgers

This is tricky shit, and is virtually impossible to pull off when belts or tight-fitting pants are involved. In a front-facing position (like the Original), you slide BOTH hands down the front of his or her pants (above the underwear), but then giving a little twisting finger motion at the end to let them know you mean business.

These are your entry-level, super-basic Bob Rodgersing techniques to get you started.

There are no limits, so please let your imagination run wild.

If you have Bob Rodgersing tips, stories, or new entries to the How to Bob Rodgers Someone Library, I hope you’ll share them in the comments.

From the Bob Rodgers Training Facility, over and out.

Another Author’s Note: There are more than likely MANY guys named Bob Rodgers out there. I want to reiterate that Bob Rodgers is a totally made-up name and is NOT the actual name of the guy doing all the Bob Rodgersing in this story. If your name is Bob Rodgers or you know one and like him, I’m really sorry.

Tagged , , , , , , ,

The Pee Problem

peeing-statue

Because I’m sometimes unreliable and don’t always follow through with things, I am getting serious about my body for the third time since my divorce.

The first time I got serious, I did absolutely nothing. I just wrote that I was serious one time. That was all I did.

The second time I got serious, I got back into a regular workout routine. A little cardio and a little weightlifting. Nothing too intense. I’m not trying to be a bodybuilder. I just want to look good naked.

Fine. And with clothes on. I got close, but then let the holidays derail my efforts. I felt myself slipping back into lazy,­ you’re-gonna-get-fat! mode.

The third time I got serious was a week or so ago.

I told a couple people I was doing this for accountability reasons.

June 1, Baby

You’re totally going to want me on June 1.

Okay. If you’re a heterosexual female, or a dude who wants dudes, you’re totally going to want me on June 1.

Okay. If you’re a heterosexual female, or a dude who wants dudes, and don’t discriminate against 5’9” divorced guys with a kid rocking the suburban middle-class lifestyle like a boss, you’re totally going to want me on June 1.

I picked an arbitrary date. I figured I needed to be in swimming-pool shape by June. Right? Right.

I’m doing what I always do: I’m waking up early and doing cardio. Lift weights. I’m reducing my calories and exercising more-disciplined eating habits.

But I’m also doing something I’ve never done before: Drinking a lot of water.

This is a Thing, Apparently

A quick Google search will show you a variety of people who swear by a gallon-of-water-per-day 30-day challenge. Without changing any other facet of their lifestyle, people are losing 10-15 pounds just by adding a gallon of water to their daily habits. I have a couple friends who swear by it, also.

So, instead of sipping hot coffee all day, I’m having a cup in the morning and then drinking water the rest of the day. Four 32-ounce water bottle fill-ups. It’s infinitely easier to do than expected.

There’s just one problem.

My Bladder Suffers from Dwarfism

Turns out, I just don’t drink much. Of anything. Been this way my entire life. I drink water or Gatorade or whatever when I’m thirsty. I drink coffee fairly often because it’s the world’s greatest beverage. I drink energy drinks when I need to stay awake for the next five hours. And I drink beer, wine and liquor socially and am generally more awesome (almost certainly just in my own head) when I do.

I started drinking beer regularly as a college freshman and that’s when I learned about this biological defect.

I drink one, two, three, four, and I’m cool. We always called it “breaking the seal.” The first urination in the midst of a drinking session.

Once that happens? Freaking floodgates, yo. Every drink, I’m in the restroom. Every drink!

I use the time to assess my sobriety and have little conversations with myself about not acting as intoxicated as I might feel, or to strike up hilarious conversations with random strangers peeing next to me who may or may not find the talks as entertaining as I do.

This is why I don’t drink much at pro football or basketball or baseball games that I bought expensive tickets to attend. Because I don’t want to have to hike up or down stairs to the bathroom twice per $12 beer.

This is also why I avoid partying too far from home. “Don’t worry, Matt! It’s just a 45-minute ride home!”

Are you shitting me? Forty-five minutes? In a car? With bumps and crap to drive over? I. Will. Die. And almost have a handful of times.

One time I made my friend emergency-stop just a couple minutes from my house so I could pee in a bush outside of some business where I happened to know a guy who worked there, but hadn’t given me permission to pee outside the building, even though that’s totally what I would have told the officer.

I don’t know what happens when you let your bladder swell until failure, but I’m pretty sure you just pee your pants.

Because I’m drinking a gallon of water per day, I have to pee constantly. As a writer, I find this interrupts my flow (pun intended), and I’m annoyed that I have to get up so often.

I went to the restroom three times while writing this post. I wish I was kidding.

Whatever.

Keep your eye on the ball, right?

“Discipline is choosing between what you want now, and what you want most.” I read that on my friend’s blog recently. Seems accurate enough.

What do I want most?

You to totally want me on June 1, of course!

If interested, you can probably find me in a restroom.

Or emergency-peeing behind a bush.

#tommyleejonesface

#tommyleejonesface

Tagged , , , , , , , , ,

A Girl at a Bar

Kind of like this. Only next to me.

Kind of like this. Only next to me.

It was to be a different kind of Valentine’s Day.

I was okay with that.

My five-year-old son had a special event scheduled at his karate dojo. Something just for kids.

Maybe I’ll meet some other parents.

I had been looking forward to it. It’s fun to be a parent at little-kid things.

But as I signed a permission slip for my son to take part in the evening’s scheduled activities, it dawned on me that this wasn’t something parents would be attending.

I thought it was curious they would schedule something on Valentine’s Day. But when I realized they did it intentionally to give adults some time to do adult stuff while the kids had fun together in a safe location, it all made sense.

Well, shit.

I decided right away I’d go have dinner somewhere. The dojo is located in a strip mall a couple suburban towns away. There were a couple pubs and restaurants nearby.

So, I parked the Jeep and walked into an Irish pub I’d never been in before.

The Bar Crowd

It was an interesting crowd.

I’m like Jason Bourne when I’m sitting alone, only instead of being a badass prepared for anything, I’m really just creepily digesting everyone’s conversations and making judgments about them based on very little information.

The bar was U-shaped.

To my left was a couple I assumed to be meeting for the first time. They seemed an odd pair. Like they’d decided to meet for drinks on an online dating site.

Three stools to my right, in the middle of the U, sat a man by himself who walked in not long after I did. He immediately ordered a pint of Fat Tire—the same beer I was drinking—and a shot of Jägermeister. I was at the bar for nearly three hours. He never took that shot while I was there.

There were two intoxicated couples and one guy who boasted about how he dumped his wife at home to come drinking with his friends. They sat directly across the bar burning money on losing attempts at Keno.

A male gay couple came in and sat in a booth on the other side of the room. A couple guys who looked like they were really into science-fiction and comic books came in and sat between the guy who wouldn’t take his shot and the drunk Keno players.

Those guys LOVED the song “Sail” by AWOLNATION. It’s probably the fifth-best song on the album.

And back to my right sat two couples in a booth. One of the guys was older than my father and was with a girl younger than me. And yes, they were a couple.

What am I doing wrong? Honestly?

Everything, probably.

The bartenders were sweet. Two girls. One was gorgeous. The other was not. The one who wasn’t flirted with me all night.

I didn’t mind.

I left the bar and walked down to the karate place to check on my little man. It was shortly after 8 p.m., and the pizza delivery person was JUST getting there as I walked in. Dinner for the kids. My son is usually in bed at this time.

Whatever. Special occasion.

I chatted with a couple staff members. Everything was under control.

Screw it. I’m going back to the bar.

I sat down in the same stool.

I smiled at the bartender who thought I’d left for the evening.

“Another Fat Tire?” she said.

“Yep.”

A couple minutes later, a pretty blonde girl walked in and sat right next to me.

“A Miller Lite and a Fireball,” she told the bartender.

“Nice work,” I said, holding out my glass.

She clinked it and we drank.

She asked me to do it again when she took her shot.

“I was supposed to be out with my mom,” she said. “She dumped me.”

“Dumped by your mom on Valentine’s Day? Brutal,” I said.

She was only in town visiting.

She lives in Venice Beach, Calif. A self-employed action-sports photographer. A very talented one. I checked out her work.

She just travels around, sometimes internationally, shooting cool stuff.

Very pretty.

Very funny.

Very engaging.

Not quite an hour later, I didn’t want to leave.

But my son always has, and always will, come first.

“Devon, I’d love to stay and get silly with you. But I gotta go be a dad. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

A smile.

“Likewise.”

And I walked out, leaving that lovely stranger to have whatever adventure the night was going to deliver her.

And I smiled.

A chance encounter.

A simple thing, really.

But a big thing.

A reminder that life just happens.

That plans are great. Expectations are fine. But life just happens anyway.

The beautiful stranger chose me to sit next to.

Smile.

And someday, there will be another one.

Tagged , , , , , , , ,

Technical Difficulties, Vol. 3

I'm so dumb.

I’m so dumb.

I premature ejac-posted tomorrow’s post while trying to edit it on my phone WHILE drinking.

*shrug*

I’m sorry.

It will reappear again in a couple hours. And in the meantime, you can enjoy this sweet one.

This will likely go down in history as my shortest-ever post.

You’re welcome.

Tagged , , , ,

‘Twas the Night Before Christmas

 With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore.

With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore.

‘Twas the night before Christmas and I was at home, totally alone, and writing a poem. The house is a mess. I don’t really care. My friends coming over, can lick my…

Christmas balls, brownies and cranberry dips! The beer tastes so good when the head hits your lips! There will be shots of tequila! Rum and eggnog! Ensuring this night that we’ll sleep like Yule logs.

The house has a chimney where squirrels once nested, baby squirrels rained down, and my patience was tested. So I installed a cage to keep the rats out, a cage that’s likely to make Santa shout.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT?!?!” the old man might yell, frightening the reindeer who will jingle their bells, before flying away and stranding St. Nick, who will stand there dumbfounded, feeling like a dick.

With the chimney shut tight, and the reindeer aflight, Santa will sneak like a thief in the night, to my back door and let himself in, and that’s when he’ll hear it: The sounds of our sins:

Laughter and swearing and off-color joking. Eating and drinking and probably smoking. The Mowgli’s, Cake, Of Monsters and Men. Walk the Moon, Volbeat, and Radiohead. Imagine Dragons, Beck, and Lana Del Ray. Childish Gambino and then Hot Chelle Rae.

“Holy shit, Hot Chelle Rae!” Santa will say. “This song’s gayer than Freddie Mercury’s pants!” before involuntarily starting to dance.

He’ll stomp down the stairs to my basement bar, but no one will notice; we’re not seeing far.

Faster than magic reindeer, his angry voice will come, and he’ll scowl and he’ll point and make us feel dumb: “Now, Scott! Now, Angel! Now, David and Connie! On, Joel! On, Mindy! On, Pam and on Johnny!”

He’ll flash a quick smile, do a quick whirl, point right at me, and wink at the jewelry store girl.

“The idiot reindeer left and now I’m in trouble, please pour me a drink, in fact, make that a double!”

Obliging the man, I’ll pour a tall glass. “I can control time! I’m getting drunk off my ass!”

His eyes will not twinkle though his dimples will be merry. His cheeks—like roses. His nose? Like a cherry.

We’ll party. We’ll laugh. We’ll dance and we’ll sing. Only God knows what the evening will bring.

“Sonofabitch! Would you look at the time! Lord, where are my reindeer? Please show me a sign.”

And just then on the stereo—Bullet for my Valentine.

Santa will slam down his drink with a thunderous THRAP. “Happy birthday, Jesus! I hope you like crap!”

He’ll stand up and stumble—a drunken Kriss Kringle. Scott will leave early; his keys, he will jingle.

The noise will draw reindeer back to my home; and here I thought I’d spend this evening alone.

We’ll laugh and we’ll hug and become Facebook friends, then he’ll climb in his sleigh where the time always bends.

He’ll put his hands on my shoulders: “Thanks for the shots. You’ve been naughty this year. But when have you not?”

I’ll shrug and I’ll nod because that’s what I do.

“Look under your tree. I left you a few.”

The magic is back, this Christmas, you see, with the promise of treasures in 2014.

If the presents are late or the gifts too confusing, I apologize, sincerely, for adult-drink abusing.

A visit from Santa. A visit from friends. An abundance of blessings where fun never ends.

Be thankful for fun and for laughs and for life. Be thankful for friends, your family, your wife. Be thankful for children, for adventure—live free. Be thankful for wine and barrel-aged whiskey.

I’m thankful for you. You give my life light.

Merry Christmas, everyone. Please have a fun night.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,
%d bloggers like this: