Blowing Balls, Dipping Balls, and Busting One's Own Balls

Those of us seated at the far end of the table spend most of Jacques’s birthday dinner discussing what makes for real art, why I’m too old to drop acid, who the Bong Boy* is, and when at least three of us are going to try hallucinogenic mushrooms. We reach no solid conclusions, we set no firm plans. 

And it looks like I’ve made a mistake with the Super Blowing Ball Series II UFO. As Jacques unwraps the gift, Mr. Wench proclaims, “Uncle Fun strikes again, huh?” I thought Jacques would dig it. It’s a rare, or seemingly rare, or at least somewhat unique, sci-fi-esque toy. I figured he’s had his fill of Star Wars stuff. But he seems a bit uncertain as to what to make of the gift. Ah, well. 

Ry makes a cameo. He’d made himself scarce after he broke off a wedding engagement, twice, with one of our number. I hadn’t known that he worked at this particular tapas bar. (Whose idea was it to come here, anyway?) For obvious reasons, he would not wait on us. He said doing so might result in an ugly scene. Exempli gratia: If we were too rowdy, he’d have to engage in certain clandestine tactics, including, but not limited to, dipping his balls into our cheese-dip. And if he had indeed so engaged himself, he would not have disclosed the fact until after we’d had our fill of dipping all the things there are to dip at a tapas bar. (And there are many things to dip, indeed.) 

After Jacques’s birthday dinner, that same ‘shroom-conniving three of us hit a different bar up the street. There, I get drunk and get the low-down on one particular crafty infiltrator. (This puts it mildly, and must be put mildly, for it is not my story to tell.) Oh, and I now have some reason to believe the Bong Boy is none other than that infamous bad boy, B** A*****k. 

When one of our number departs, the two left danced around the subject of my singleness. In fairness, they danced while I tripped, stumbled, and stepped on toes. 

Much later, almost all the way home, I take an unnecessary detour to the local White Hen Pantry. I’m in the mood for wafers. And so I buy wafers, and also some fresh-looking stale cookies, and also a box of frozen TGIF potato skins. Then I go home to stuff my face. 

This morning, as is part of the usual Monday routine, I return Betty to her retirement community. Afterward, I drive Pop to his old office, where, as usual, he sits around with his former accounting cohorts and yackety-yacks about taxes, stocks, and his old clients. Pop, in his day, attracted a few shady types who, I reckon, avoided the larger accounting firms. 

And tonight, as well as tomorrow night, I’ve got [REDACTED] rehearsal. I need to get back into the habit of running my lines every day. Save for the recent changes and additions to my scenes, I pretty much have them all down, but, a few weeks ago, I fell out of the routine of running them daily with the tape recorder. 

26 & 27 September 2005 

*[10/16/22: On the off chance that you’re paying close attention, the Bong Boy and the Bongster are not one and the same.] 

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