He walks up to the closet; He comes up to the closet; Now he's at the closet; Now he's opening the closet...

It’s August! This is the month when normal plebeians take the route of the Go-go’s and vacation (FYI: It’s all they ever wanted; they have to get away). Hell, even the President takes the whole month off, right after he sneaks in a special recess nomination of a man whose professional track record even his fellow Republicans find reprehensible. Sneaky, that one.

I, however, do not get the month off. In fact, I may have to get a second job to afford all the weddings and wedding-related activity in which I must participate for the next couple months. Therefore, all posts will be written under languid protest and with little enthusiasm. Accordingly, the reader should sit at his or her desk, dejected, and read with both the verve and tenor of an airplane hostage being held at gunpoint.

That said, the last vestiges of July have left me simply exhausted. On Friday, after explaining to my long lost cousin my stale recollection of the Uniform Probate Code, so that his slighlty longer and loster brother wouldn’t steal any of his inheritance, I made my way to Bump for happy hour. The hour was truly happy, as best I can recall; I just had a cosmopolitan IV attached to my arm to avoid messy spills. From there friends and I went to Tequila’s for a classy Mexican dinner. Luckily, we weren’t allergic to oxymorons. I kid. No one loves a Mexican more than I do, ask around.

That same night I toyed with the idea of seeing a movie, but since I was too drunk to understand English and nothing was being offered with subtitles, we postponed until the next day.

The next day I saw Charlie and the Chocolate Factory with KD, after hopping out of bed more bright eyed and bushy tailed than I deserved to be. The movie was cute, much different than the original and creepy enough to keep me interested. I especially enjoyed anything the girl who played Veruca Salt did. Each of us has a little Veruca inside. I like seeing movies with KD because I know we are thinking completely different things when we are watching the films. He points out cool technical things to me and probably wonders why I am laughing at things no one else in the theater thinks is funny.

That night it was time for assclown’s bachelor party. As the token ‘mo at the party, I knew it would be my job to add equal parts snarky commentary and innocuous sass. If nothing else, I know my role. We ate an amazing dinner at Ristorante Panorama (which I couldn’t find for about 15 minutes because I am an idiot who thinks reading is optional). We then went to Sugarmom’s where we made assclown walk around with a shirt that said “chicks hate me” and get it signed by all the ladies. These women were surprisingly tame, and none of them took any suggestions I gave. These included, “Why are YOU the one that bent over?”; “Thanks for all the syphilis.” And what I wrote on my most Christian friend at his bachelor party, “Sucks dick for coke.”

The two prettiest girls we ran into that night connected with me immediately. Pretty attracts pretty, you know? We really hit it off, so instead of going to the nudie bar with the rest of the guys, I got to know them. They were hilarious and they decided that we were going to hang out for the rest of the night. Needless to say, as the rest of the bachelor party stumbled out of the bar, there was more than one jealous face as it became more and more apparent that the gay dude was the one going home with the ladies. It’s just how I roll, and besides, strippers are so déclassé. We eventually picked up ZD, went to his house to play drinking games and there may have been some making out involved. I know what you’re thinking, but I have broken boundaries before. I am legion. I am legend. I contain multitudes. It was a very fun night, nothing too amazing, but I will continue to let the rest of the bachelor party think that it was mind-blowing, near Biblical awesomeness.

After some sing-along action and what may be classified as petit theft, I eventually got back to my place sometime between 5 and 6. This was irresponsible for several reasons, one of which was that I was roped into helping move people in what would be a few hours. KD volunteered me, and so, I obliged. The two of us traveled to the burbs to pack a van so tight, it would squeal like a piggy. I learned two things: 1) I am not the least organized mover in the world, as I once thought. I am not even the worst of all my friends. And 2) I am not strong. That is all.

One of my other friends was moving stuff into her new place the same day. Instead of taking the time to catch up with each other, we clearly used the time to discuss something more important, R Kelly’s “Trapped in the Closet” video series. I described them this way in an email this morning: the brilliance of spoken word poetry with Dickinsonian slant rhyme over percussive, yet somehow smooth, moaning. No words can capture the videos’ virtuosity. If you have not seen them, you must. They are a delight, even with the lack of pissing on fourteen year-old girls. You can add that yourself at home. I did.

Finally, one more faux-celebrity sighting notch to add to my bedpost: this week at bump, I saw Trading Spaces’ Doug Wilson. Who knew he was gay?! You can’t even tell from this picture above [warning: applies only to the blind].

Happy Monday, y’all.