I'll have all you know that I'm typing out this post without the use of my keyboard's “T” button. It sucks. In these three sentences alone, I have used the letter “T” twenty-three times. That means I've had to pull up a keyboard viewer on my display and click those letters in myself. I hope you're all happy and not ungrateful bastards. On to the thoughts, and my second beer.

I'm through The Old Man and the Sea, halfway through The Sun Also Rises, and have downloaded For Whom The Bell Tolls on audio book. Hem's a great writer, and I dig his style. Example; in a letter to his friend and contemporary, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Hemingway told a brilliant and hilarious story in nine words;

“Got tight last night on absinthe. Did knife tricks.”

That being said, I'm now really interested to know exactly which knife tricks Hem did, and for whom. Was he alone, throwing bowie knives at a scarred wall? Was his hand slapped on a table in one of his many favorite bars as he rapidly stabbed the spaces between his spread-out fingers, onlookers exchanging bets and calling dibs on potentially severed digits? Could Hem juggle? I suspect we shall never know.

It's that time of year again, people. Starting this Friday a 1:15, I shall be loosed from the chains and tyranny of midterms and projects and deadlines and loan sharks, only to be welcomed by the booze-soaked embrace of a full and unyielding week of drinking, beaches, road trips, and the two states that will give harbor to my Spring Break antics. Much could happen, much of it foreboding in nature. I may be detained indefinitely due to a misunderstanding involving South Carolinian fireworks and gated Myrtle Beach retirement communities. I could declare myself Duke Of All The Coast and begin demanding tithes of sour mash whiskey from any and all within earshot. I already have plans to set fire to the Atlantic Ocean, at all costs. Look to hear my recollections of the endeavor upon my return.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again; nothing asks the question “what next?” like finishing a beer can. And nothing answers that question by the opening of another one. Beer four.

I've decided that when I move down to the beach for this summer, I will take any job as long as I 1) get to work with boats and 2) can see the water. I could be scrubbing the brine off of an old skiff that has sunk four times in as many days, but I'll still be happy. For now, though, I'm aiming for captain.

Give me one good Goddamn reason why Hannah Montana got invited to The Oscars. Just one. You can't, can you? Me neither. It's ok… come on. We'll grieve together.

Back from hiatus and better than never, I'll leave you crazy fuckers with today's booze safari which, were it unwed, would take you in a manly fashion:

1. Extraterrestrial Life

2. Planet Habitability

3. Terraforming

4. Firefly (TV series)

5. Smuggling

6. Alcoholic beverage.


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