Much like a toothless prostitute, the aging process sucks and ... I'm not sure where I'm going with this analogy. Anyway, after 27 each birthday gets a tad bit more depressing. But they're still a great excuse to see old friends. On Tuesday, Art and I decided to have a mellow joint birthday dinner at our official location for large get-together dinners, Hop Li. I think a tear trickles down Mao's preserved corpse cheek every time an Asian person eats at a Chinese restaurant in the Westside, so I don't know why we keep picking this place. My assumption is that the large circular tables are socially conducive by enabling everybody to face each other. And the food's actually not bad.
While I was filling out my Princeton application in high school, I realized that focusing too much on the future was fucking depressing. That's what happens when you draw out a time line of your remaining decades to mark upcoming life achievement goals (get Harvard MBA, start first company, make first $1 million, blah blah); and you realize that life can't be about living from one dot to the next on a pen-drawn time line. So I promised myself I'd live more for the present. Never filled out that Princeton application, even though it was my first choice school. Speaking of present, Art and I got awesome Star Wars Mr. Potato Heads from Chindy.
After dinner, we headed to my favorite neighborhood bar back when I used to live in the area. It's got to be the only place in LA where it's actually legal to smoke.
In an effort to get Rog to sing "The Crying Game," Art and I agreed to do "Summer Nights." And then I tried to hide behind the TV and mic stand. Rog, the little bastard, refused to hold up his end of the bargain. Pic taken by Paul, of course.
( The Usual Shenanigans.Collapse )
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