The Fentonian New Year officially began at 11:09 pm on Saturday night. While the official calendar of Fentonia is the same one used by the rest of the modern world, the F.R.F. (Fentonians' Republic of Fentonia) also follows a calendar whose origin is based on the day and time I was born, 11:09 pm on June 30, 1980. Therefore, this past weekend saw us flip the calendar to Year 28 (similar to the many misguided millenium arguments that went on a few years ago, it is important to remember that even though I turned 27 on Saturday, this is actually the beginning of Year 28, because THERE IS NO YEAR ZERO).
Anyway, it was a solid weekend all around, although I do miss The Chelsea Bee, who is in Costa Rica for a family wedding. There was a beach party thrown by Kevin Byrne at Reddington Shores on Saturday. I went along with Laffer, Thomas, Brock Goose and Mike Murray. Predictably, the day devolved into a festival of ogling scantily clad tail along with watching and analyzing other guys' attempts to secure said tail. Most of the guys in our group are in relationships, but not Laflin, so we made it a collective effort to help his cause. Real band of brothers type of shit, you know? The pickings were slim, though, and none of the females at the gathering really merited the kind of balls to the wall, stop-at-nothing, grind-it-out effort that Laffer, like most guys, is capable of when the girl in question is a real lottery pick.
Laffer did seemingly have a little something going with a dirty blonde (dirty as in her hair color, although she may well have been truly dirty to boot) in a polka dot bikini, even securing side by side seating with her in the gigantic 10-person tube we had floating out in the water. We did some recon on this chick while the others were in the tube playing grab-ass, only to learn that she had a kid. We all agreed there was nothing wrong with this and that Laflin should proceed with the mission.
The revelation of this chick's motherhood even prompted Thomas to deliver the line of the day. When someone said she had a kid, we all kind of looked at each other quietly as a beat passed, but then Thomas deadpanned, "At least we know she fucks."
You really had to be there to get a full sense of just how concisely on the money the statement was. I mean, he summed it all up right there.
Alas, the chick ended up flaking out, complaining of "seasickness" while sitting next to Laffer on the tube, thanks to the half-foot ripples on the Lake of Mexico. She got out, and that was that. We left without incident. The drive back, by the way, was very little highway driving, meaning we "got down in the shit" driving through Inner Pinellas. You really don't realize what a godforsaken shithole Pinellas County is until you actually get down on the surface streets, which I rarely do, and won't again any day soon.
I had a nice dinner at Iavarone's later that night with my Mom, George, both grandma's and George's grandson Justin and his teammate Mike. Justin and Mike are both in instructional league baseball in Dunedin as recent draftees of the Toronto Blue Jays. It was nice to be with the family, although Iavarone's turned out to be overrated. My center cut sirloin was tough and a little dry. Plus the Devil Rays lost their sixth in a row.
More later.
