So, when you go to dinner with other bloggers, that’s what everyone is wondering. Are we? Aren’t we?
Should I say something witty that I hope the other person will blog or will it come out so excruciatingly embarassing that I’ll dread to see it print? When the restaurant doesn’t serve any wine, you know your chances of either are option are reduced exponentially.
When you get there first you avoid the Fredo Corleone Chair of Honor. You also get to scope out the exits. There were no ground rules, because even though one of us tried to impose them, I politely reminded one and all that as Libertarian no one makes rules for me. Yeah. I’m just that cool…like Fonzie I refuse to submit to the basic structures of society.
We had much good food, much good conversation. We are all completely miffed at Lost for shoving 10 minutes of TV into two hours. We are all completely in love with Les Dames de Gilmore, which does not in any way reflect on anyone’s sexual preference. We all got confused by hearing the real names for the online people, places and things that the others had concocted. Tales of merry days of yore abounded. We all left happy. But my happiness wouldn’t last long. Because Ben & Jerry’s was totally frigging out of the Wavy Gravy Ice Cream–after I braved the Gucci Ghetto to go to their store.
So I blogged it, but not really. All the participants, save me are quasi-anonymous. And at no point in this post did I bring up the issue of Paul McCartney’s Wife’s Leg and The Resultant Logistical Amenities.