Biscayne Bay + Old Rasputin + Black Keys + Haines

Friday night. The gf’s 300 miles away, slammed at work. I’m tired of lifting and drinking at the same time, and, you know, a man’s only got so many Pearl Jam records.

It’s just you and me old friend.

So let’s catch up. I live at 335 S. Biscayne. I tell you this because there are 38 floors — if you’re my ex eHarmony stalker, good luck getting past the concierge. I have a job. I write about something called e-discovery. If you must know, it deals with the exchange of electronic information during pre-trial litigation, and is as exciting as it sounds.

I drink NorCal stouts. My dog is still alive and my sister has a YouTube channel. It’s not porn. I’m proud of her.

My girlfriend is the sweetest person in the world. She has a green blog. She’s turning me into a vegetarian, and I’m okay with that. I still take Kobe over LeBron six days of the week and twice on Sunday. Tim Tebow and Tom Brady are two of my favorite athletes. My head will explode on Saturday.

I heard a joke today. Jesus walks up to God and God says, “Son, sit at my right hand.” Tim Tebow walks up to God and says, “Scoot over.”

I have a pretty awesome family, a dwindling core of friends, and — sorry dad — a lot of hair. I picked OKC to win it all. I am, nominally, a Hurricane, though I admit to missing four games this season — none of which I would have traded a can of corn to see. I used to be a good writer.

I play my music loud some Friday’s because my neighbor’s a dick, though I spend most Friday’s in Gainesville. So this really isn’t an issue. Sorry for calling you a dick, neighbor.

I haven’t heard a new album in 8 months. I listened to “Bulls on Parade” eight times Thursday morning. Before sunrise. I hadn’t heard that song since I was 10 before I started working. I’m 25. I still have teen angst. And I still have the top search result for “Best Smashing Pumpkins Song.”

Kyle Rancourt is still king. Brian Holt is still alive. SC still has more hits than Rod Carew and the Beastie Boys. I have no problem dancing naked for the hotel patrons across the pool. They’re transient people. This is one night only.

The view from the middle