Tiki King Chairs.

OK, so, welcome to my web page. It is 10.25 am on a Saturday morning as I write this. The sun glinting off the creek below my window makes the room appear as though it is under water, and the slowly retreating Brain fog from last nights Mai-Tai fest completes the illusion. I take the last swig from a 32 ounce skull mug no longer full of coffee, and wait for the effects. It's been a while since I have taken the time to sit and drink some good strong coffee and just write. I used to keep a journal that I wrote faithfully in every day. And a good thing too, Because I have noticed that the further you get from a night of drunken craziness, the less you seem to be able to remember the details. Funny thing is that the drunker you were last night, the more details there seem to be. Maybe some are better forgotten, but hey, I'll tell ya, when you're up there, belting it out into the Karaoke mike you know you were sounding good! And you know it because anyone who heard you was probably half tipped over as well, and they thought you sounded great! That's the kind of stuff that is good to read about Later. And some stuff that no longer makes sense now is fun too. I have noticed that my journal is filled with now meaningless references about nights out, like
"PS: I wonder if they will make me pay for the chair?"
I guess I figured that these little notes would be pretty obvious, but often times I would stumble home from the bar and write this crap down, and in the morning, it would be about as obvious as why I woke up in the closet. Back in 1992 a group of us called the "Bacardi Skate Pirates" got together for a weekend to bury a bottle of fine Rum, and a chest filled with treasure, out on the coast. when we got together to dig it up 6 years later, a lot of the details seemed to slip away. We remembered getting together Friday night, and the hellish hangover Sunday morning, but the rest was guessing. Then came the journal. Luckily, I had written most of it down over a couple of dog hair beers that Sunday night. Can I tell the tale? not this time, Not enough time. If you see me at the Bar, buy me a shot of Solera and I'll tell you what happened, broken shovels and all. Of course, then I'll have to kill you. So, until next time, I leave you with this thought:
I wonder who paid for the chair?

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