Oh well
The Astros gave me a good reason to cut my wrists with pizza
So we're inside Kennealy's watching the Astros blow a lead, retake the lead, then blow it again when Garner leaves Wheeler to hang out to dry and keeps Ensberg and Wilson whiffing away at the plate.
I don't care what his stats are. Turnbow is not a good pitcher. Just let him hurl and eventually he'll sail it away from the catcher. His Inner Mitch Williams will come out, just as Lidge's has.
Anyway, we were supposed to meet up with Elisson and we're wondering where he is... minutes go by... it turns 20:00... so I decide to call him.
He's on the back patio of Kennealy's. The waitress/barmaid/serving wench obviously didn't quite get my description right.
Shit happens. I mean...
Now I need to wash my mouth out with soap.
Yes, that's cat-shaped soaps from Rahel, straight from the second-holiest of all lands (Ira's Hot Dogs in Northbrook is the holiest, although Chuy's in River Oaks comes close to both). I'd have washed this morning with them and reported on their greatness, but I was too zonker in the morning to remember to do so. Instead, I must remain ignorant of the true scope of the gift's greatness when I express my gratitutde for their construction and arrival.
Oh, and I think the guy working the pizza ovens is from Another Land. He was on duty, sliding out the pizzas in the most jolly of moods, ya just want to hug the happy lug.