Pass Me That Adenovirus. Thanks.

So the industry that showed me the door now wants me back. Looks like my days of concrete dust and skinned knuckles aren't over just yet. On Friday morning when I got to the crew room Strange Days was playing on the radio. That was fitting. I was tired and not in the mood and vowed to stay home that night and rest up.

As you can imagine, no such thing was to occur. I hit the apartment with a case of the cheapest beer money can buy and soon enough we were being chased by an absolutely crazy man down Osbourne. Two pubs and ten drinks later (nine beers and shot of tequila with the birthday girl) . . .

"Jason, Jason, come here."
"James."
"Phil."
"My name's James."
"I know! We're best friends!"

. . . I'm back at the apartment using somebody's jacket for a blanket, crashed on the floor beside the balcony door. (Brett, that door has some wicked draft going on.) And there's a girl who plays piano who I'm supposed to call.

The little dog is barking again and I want to kick the fucking thing right off my front step onto the road.